Skip to main content

Full text of "Beautiful stories about children"

See other formats 


BY  CHARLES  DICK 


*^ 


BOSTOISI 
PUBLIC 
UBRARY 


r^y^.^fs-f 


L^ 


-.v  "^ 


/ 


%yCT)ji 


n 


■■^4 


"Tl  Kl  V/      1-1  kt 


Beautiful  Stories 


.ABOUT... 


<2i 


HILDREN 


By     CHARLES     DIGKE.NS 


retold  by 
His  Granddaughter  and  Others 


SUPERBLY    ILLUSTRATED 


WITH     NEARLY     I OO 


NEW  COLOR  PLATES.  HALF-TONES  AND  PEN  SKETCHES 

Made  ELsfecially  by  Famous  Artists 
for  these  stories 


THIS  BOOK  CONTAINS  THE  MOST  CHARMING  PORTRAYALS 
OF  CHILD-CHARACTER  FROM  THE  IMMORTAL 
WORKS  OF  THE  GREAT  AUTHOR 


THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  CO.. 
Chicago,  Philadelphia,  Toronto. 


D^ 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1898,  by 

W.    E.    SCULL, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress    at  Washington 
All    rights    reserved. 


ALL    FBBSOMS    ABB    WAKNBD    MOT    TO    IMFBiNOB    UPON    ODB    COPTBIQBT    BI     DSIMQ    BITHm 
THB    UATTBB    OB    THB    PICTDRBS    IM    THIS    TOLDUB. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"It  was  Dickens  who  made  it  popular  to  keep  Christmas 
with  acts  of  helpfulness  to  the  poor.  Every  barefooted  boy  and 
girl  in  the  streets  of  England  and  America  to-day  fares  a  little 
better,  gets  fewer  cuffs  and  more  pudding  because  Charles 
Dickens  wrote.  He  has  softened  the  hearts  of  more  than  a 
generation.  He  made  charity  fashionable  and  awakened  the  pity 
and  brotherly  love  of  millions  of  people." 


CONTENTS. 


PAQB. 


1.  LITTLE  NELL.    From  "The  Old  Curiosity  Shop"      .  17 

2.  LITTLE  DORRIT.    From  "Little  Dorrit"    ....  48 

3.  TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG.    From  "The  Chimes"    .  63 

4.  TINY  TIM.    From  "Christmas  Carol" 75 

5.  LITTLE  DOMBEY.    From  "Dombey  and  Son"    ...  83 

6.  THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE.    From  "The  Holly-Tree 

Inn" .103 

7.  POOR  JO.    From  "Bleak  House" 117 

8.  THE  LITTLE  KENWIGS.    From  "Nicholas  Nickle- 

by" .136 

9.  THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER. 

From  "Cricket  on  the  Hearth" 143 

10.  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD.    From  "David  Cop- 

perfield" 156 

11.  JENNY  WREN.     From  "Our  Mutual  Friend"    .     .  197 

12.  PIP'S  ADVENTURE.    From  "Great  Expectations"    .  203 

13.  THE  CHILD  WHO  SWALLOWED  A  NECKLACE. 

From  "Picicwick  Papers" 213 

14.  TODGERS' 215 

15.  DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS    .  233 


List   of   Original   Illustrations. 


Little  Nell   if 

The  Departure  of  Little  Nell  and  her  Grandfather 20 

The  Exhibitors  of  the  Punch  and  Judy  Show 22 

"They  laid  down  at  night  with  nothing  between  them  and  the  sky".  ."^ ^  „  28 

"Upon  one  occasion  they  met  two  young  people  walking  on  stilts" ,   ,  30 

Mrs.  Jarley  , ,  31 

"Nell  pointed  out  the  figures  in  the  wax-work  show  to  the  visitors" 35 

Little  Nell  and  her  Grandfather  in  the  Churchyard 38 

"She  would  often  steal  in  church  and   sit  down  among  the  quiet  figures  carved  Uj*i>n 

the  tombs" ,  43 

"Day  after  day  the  old  man  would  sit  beside  her  grave" „ . .  47 

"Thinking  of  the  fields,  ain't  you  ?" ,  ...  50 

Tip  and  Little  Dorrit 58 

Maggie , _.,...  61 

Little  Paul  and  Florence , . . .  58 

Meg  and  Lilian 6^ 

"They  broke  in  like  a  grace,  my  dear" , .. .  65 

Mr.  Cratchit  and  Tiny  Tim 75 

Mr.  Cratchit  and  Mr.  Scrooge 81 

Little  Paul  Dombey 83 

Little  Dombey  and  his  Sister 84 

Dombey  and  Son 85 

Florence  and  Little  Paul 92 

Miss  Blimber  and  Paul 97 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  at  all,"  replied  Paul 100 

Master  Harry  and  Norah  arrive  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn. 104 

Mtater  Harry  and  Norah 106 

XIII 


LIST  OP  ORiaiNAL  ILLUSTRATIONS  xiv 

PAQE. 

"And  they  laid  down  on  a  bank  of  daisies  and  went  to  sleep" lo8 

"The  lady  followed,  gallantly  escorted  by  the  gentleman" II2 

Jo  and  the  Beadle "7 

Jo  and  his  Friend 130 

Jo  at  the  Gate  of  the  Churchyard  where  they  Buried  his  Friend lai 

Poor  Jo,  the  Crossing-sweeper 125 

The  Little  Kenwigs 136 

Morleena  Kenwigs 140 

Little  David  Copperfield  and  his  Mother 156 

Little  David  Copperfield  and  Barkis 174 

"Well,  if  I  was  you,  I  should  wash  him,''  said  Mr.  Dick 193 

"Seated  on  the  carpet  were  two  girls" 198 

"Go  along  with  you,  you  wicked  old  child" 200 

"Pip,  old  chap,  you'll  do  yourself  a  mischief" 203 

Pip  and  the  Convict 207 

The  Child  who  Swallowed  a  Necklace 213 

"I  wish  they  was  still  abed" 215 

"I  say — there's  fowls  to-morrow" 227 


LIST  OF   LITHOGRAPH   PLATES 

AND   FULL-PAGE   HALF-TONE   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAQE. 


TINY  TIM  (Lithograph)  ..........     {frontispiece) 

CHARLES  DICKENS iii 

DEAR,  GENTLE,  PATIENT,  NOBLE  NELL 18 

LITTLE  NELL  AND  HER  GRANDFATHER  (Lithograph)  29 

LITTLE  DORRIT  AND  MAGGIE 56 

TROTTY  VECK'S  DINNER 68 

AT  THE  HOLLY-TREE  INN  (Lithograph) 98 

"I'M  ALWAYS  A-MOVING  ON"  (Lithograph)     ....  130 

THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER    .     .  150 

DAVID  COPPERFIELD  AND  LITTLE  EM'LY    ....  160 

JENNY  WREN 200 

DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  "MARCHIONESS"    .    ,  236 

3tV 


Little  Nell. 


THE  house  was  one  of   those  receptacles   for  old    and 
curious  things,  which  seem  to  crouch  in  odd  corners  of 

the  town,  and  to  hide  their  musty  treasures  from  the 
public  eye  in  jealousy  and  distrust.  There  were  suits  of  mail 
standing-  like  ghosts  in  armor, 
here  and  there;  fantastic  carv- 
ings brought  from  monkish 
cloisters ;  rusty  weapons  of  va- 
rious kinds;  distorted  figures 
in  china,  and  wood,  and  iron 
and  ivory;  tapestry,  and  strange 
furniture  that  might  have  been 
designed  in  dreams;  and  in  the 
old,  dark,  murky  rooms  there 
lived  alone  together  an  old 
man  and  a  child — his  grand- 
child. Little  Nell.  Solitary  and 
monotonous  as  was  her  life, 
the  innocent  and  cheerful  spirit 
of  the  child  found  happiness  in 
all  things,  and  through  the  dim 
rooms  of  the  old  curiosity  shop 
Little  Nell  went  singingf,  moving  with  gay  and  lightsome 
step. 

But  gradually  over  the  old  man,  to  whom  she  was  so 
tenderly  attached,  there  stole  a  sad  change.  He  became 
thoughtful,  dejected,  and  wretched.     He  had  no  sleep  or  rest 

2  17 


LITTLE  NELL. 


i8  LITTLE  NELL 

but  that  which  he  took  by  day  in  his  easy  chair ;  for  every 
nig-ht,  and  all  night  long-,  he  was  away  from  home.  To  the 
child  it  seemed  that  her  g-randfather's  love  for  her  increased, 
even  with  the  hidden  g-rief  by  which  she  saw  him  struck 
down.  And  to  see  him  sorrowful,  and  not  to  know  the 
cause  of  his  sorrow ;  to  see  him  g-rowing-  pale  and  weak  un- 
der his  agony  of  mind,  so  weig-hed  upon  her  g-entle  spirit 
that  at  times  she  felt  as  though  her  heart  must  break. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  the  old  man's  feeble  frame 
could  bear  up  no  longer  ag-ainst  his  hidden  care.  A  raging 
fever  seized  him,  and,  as  he  lay  delirious  or  insensible 
through  many  weeks,  Nell  learned  that  the  house  which 
sheltered  them  was  theirs  no  longer ;  that  in  the  future  they 
would  be  very  poor;  that  they  would  scarcely  have 
bread  to  eat. 

At  length  the  old  man  began  to  mend,  but  his  mind 
was  weakened. 

He  would  sit  for  hours  together,  with  Nell's  small  hand 
in  his,  playing  with  the  fingers,  and  sometimes  stopping  to 
smooth  her  hair  or  kiss  her  brow;  and  when  he  saw  that 
tears  v/ere  glistening  in  her  eyes  he  would  look  amazed.  As 
the  time  drew  near  when  they  must  leave  the  house,  he  made 
no  reference  to  the  necessity  of  finding  other  shelter.  An  in- 
distinct idea  he  had  that  the  child  was  desolate  and  in  need 
of  help;  though  he  seemed  unable  to  conten: plate  their  real 
position  more  distinctly.  But  a  change  came  apon  him  one 
evening  as  he  and  Nell  sat  silently  together. 

"Let  us  speak  softly,  Nell,"  he  said.  "Hush!  for  if 
they  knew  our  purpose  they  would  say  that  I  was  mad,  and 
take  thee  from  me.  We  will  not  stop  here  another  day. 
We  will  travel  afoot  through  the  fields  and  woods,  and  trust 
©urselves  to  God  in  the  places  where  He  dwells.     To-mor 


'      i 


PEAR  GENTLE.  PATIENT,  NOBLE  NELL 


Old  Curiosity  Sho» 


LITTLE  NELL  19 

row  morning-,  dear,  we'll  turn  our  faces  from  this  scene  of 
sorrow,  and  be  as  free  and  happy  as  the  birds." 

The  child's  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and  confidence. 
She  had  no  thought  of  hunger,  or  cold,  or  thirst,  or  suffering. 
To  her  it  seemed  that  they  might  beg  their  way  from  door  to 
door  in  happiness,  so  that  they  were  together. 

When  the  day  began  to  glimmer  they  stole  out  of  the 
house,  and,  passing  into  the  street,  stood  still. 

"Which  way?"  asked  the  child. 

The  old  man  looked  irresolutely  and  helplessly  at  her, 
and  shook  his  head.  It  was  plain  that  she  was  thenceforth 
his  guide  and  leader.  The  child  felt  it,  but  had  no  doubts 
or  misgivings,  and,  putting  her  hand  in  his,  led  him  gently 
away.  Forth  from  the  city,  while  it  yet  slumbered,  went 
the  two  poor  adventurers,  wandering  they  knew  not  whither. 

They  passed  through  the  long,  deserted  streets,  in  the 
glad  light  of  early  morning,  until  these  streets  dwindled  away, 
and  the  open  country  was  about  them.  They  walked  all  day, 
and  slept  that  night  at  a  small  cottage  where  beds  were  let 
to  travelers.  The  sun  was  setting  on  the  second  day  of  their 
journey,  and  they  were  jaded  and  worn  out  with  walking, 
when,  following  a  path  which  led  through  a  churchyard  to 
the  town  where  they  were  to  spend  the  night,  they  fell  in  with 
two  traveling  showmen,  exhibitors  of  a  Punch  and  Judy  show. 
They  raised  their  eyes  when  the  old  man  and  his  young  com- 
panion were  close  upon  them.  One  of  them,  the  actual  ex- 
hibitor, no  doubt,  was  a  little,  merry-faced  man  with  a  twink- 
ling eye  and  a  red  nose,  who  seemed  to  have  unconsciously 
imbibed  something  of  his  hero's  character.  The  other — that 
was  he  who  took  the  money — had  rather  a  careful  and  cau- 
tious look,  which  was  perhaps  inseparable  from  his  occupa- 
tion also.  .. 


20 


UTTLE  NELI. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  LITTLE  NELL  AND  HER  GRANDFATHER- 


LITTLE  NELL  21 

The  merry  man  was  the  first  to  g-reet  the  strang-ers  with 
a  nod;  and  following-  the  old  man's  eyes,  he  observed  that 
perhaps  that  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  a  Punch  off  the 
stage.  (Punch,  it  may  be  remarked,  seemed  to  be  pointing- 
with  the  tip  of  his  cap  to  a  most  flourishing^  epitaph,  and  to 
be  chuckling  over  it  with  all  his  heart.) 

''Why  do  you  come  here  to  do  this?"  said  the  old  man, 
sitting-  down  beside  them,  and  looking  at  the  fig-ures  with 
extreme  delight. 

**Why,  you  see,"  rejoined  the  little  man,  ''we're  putting 
up  for  to-nig-ht  at  the  public  house  yonder,  and  it  wouldn't  do 
to  let  'em  see  the  present  company  undergoing-  repair." 

"No!  "  cried  the  old  man,  making  signs  to  Nell  to  lis- 
ten, "why  not,  eh?  why  not?" 

"Because  it  would  destroy  all  the  delusion  and  take  away 
all  the  interest,  wouldn't  it?"  replied  the  man.  "Would  you 
care  a  ha'penny  for  the  Lord  Chancellor  if  you  know'd  him 
in  private  and  without  his  wig? — certainly  not." 

"Good!"  said  the  old  man,  venturing  to  touch  one  of 
the  puppets,  and  drawing-  away  his  hand  with  a  shrill  laug-h. 
"Are  you  going-  to  show  'em  to-night — are  you?" 

"That  is  the  intention,  governor,"  replied  the  other  "and 
unless  I'm  much  mistaken.  Tommy  Codlin  is  a-calculating- 
at  this  minute  what  we've  lost  throug-h  your  coming-  upon  us. 
Cheer  up.  Tommy,  it  can't  be  much.  " 

The  little  man  accompanied  these  latter  words  with  a 
wink,  expressive  of  the  estimate  he  had  formed  of  the 
travelers'  pocketbook. 

To  this  Mr.  Codlin,  who  had  a  surly,  grumbling-  man- 
ner, replied,  as  he  twitched  Punch  off  the  tombstone  and 
flung  him  into  the  box: 

"I  don't  care  if  we  haven't  lost  a  farden,  but  you're  too 


22 


LITTLE  NELL 


free.  If  you  stood  in  front  of  the  curtain  and  see  the  public's 
faces  as  I  do,  you'd  know  human  natur'   better." 

Turning"  over  the  figures  in  the  box  like  one  who  knew 
and  despised  them,  Mr.  Codlin  drew  one  forth  and  held  it  up 
for  the  inspection  of  his  friend : 

''Look  here;  here'sallthis  Judy's  clothes  falling  to  pieces 
again.     You  haven't  g'ot  a  needle  and  thread,  I  suppose?" 


THE  EXHIBITORS  OF  THE  PUNCH  AND  JUDY  SHOW. 

The  little  man  shook  his  head  and  scratched  it  ruefully, 
as  he  contemplated  this  severe  indisposition  of  a  principal 
performer.  Seeing  that  they  were  at  a  loss,  the  child  said,^ 
timidly : 

"I  have  a  needle,  sir,  in  my  basket,  and  thread,  too. 
Will  you  let  me  try  to  mend  it  for  you?  I  think  I  could  do 
it  neater  than  you  could." 

Even  Mr.  Codlin  had  nothing  to  urgfe  against  a  proposal 
so   seasonable.     Nell,  kneeling  down    beside  the  box,  was 


LITTLE  NELL  23 

soon  busily  engaged  in  her  task,  and  accomplishing-  it  to  a 
miracle. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged  the  merry  little  man  looked 
at  her  with  an  interest  which  did  not  appear  to  be  diminished 
when  he  glanced  at  her  helpless  companion.  When  she  had 
finished  her  work  he  thanked  her,  and  inquired  whither  they 
were  traveling. 

"N — no  farther  to-night,  I  think,"  said  the  child,  look- 
ing toward  her  grandfather. 

"If  you're  wanting  a  place  to  stop  at,"  the  man  remark- 
ed, "I  should  advise  you  to  take  up  at  the  same  house  with 
us.  That's  it.  The  long,  low,  white  house  there.  It's  very 
cheap." 

When  they  had  been  refreshed  the  whole  house  hurried 
away  into  an  empty  stable  where  the  show  stood,  and  where, 
by  the  light  of  a  few  flaring  candles  stuck  around  a  hoop 
which  hung  by  a  line  from  the  ceiling,  it  was  to  be  forthwith 
exhibited. 

And  now  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  after  blowing  away  at 
the  Pan's  pipes,  took  his  station  on  one  side  of  the  checked 
drapery  which  concealed  the  mover  of  the  figures,  and,  put- 
ting his  hands  in  his  pockets,  prepared  to  reply  to  all 
questions  and  remarks  of  Punch,  and  to  make  a  dismal  feint 
of  being  his  most  intimate  private  friend,  of  believing  in  him 
to  the  fullest  and  most  unlimited  extent,  of  knowing  that  he 
enjoyed  day  and  night  a  merry  and  glorious  existence  in 
that  temple,  and  that  he  was  at  all  times  and  under  every 
circumstance  the  same  intelligent  and  joyful  person  that  the 
spectators  then  beheld  him. 

The  whole  performance  was  applauded  to  the  echo,  and 
voluntary  contributions  were  showered  in  with  a  liberality 
which  testified  yet   more  strongly   to   the  general   delight. 


24  LITTLE  NELL 

Among  the  laug-hter  none  was  more  loud  and  frequent  than 
the  old  man's.  Nell's  was  unheard,  for  she,  poor  child, 
with  her  head  drooping  on  his  shoulder,  had  fallen  asleep, 
and  slept  too  soundly  to  be  roused  by  any  of  his  efforts  to 
awaken  her  to  a  participation  in  his  glee. 

The  supper  was  very  good,  but  she  was  too  tired  to  eat, 
and  yet  would  not  leave  the  old  man  until  she  had  kissed 
him  in  his  bed.  He,  happily  insensible  to  every  care  and 
anxiety,  sat  listening  with  a  vacant  smile  and  admiring  face 
to  all  that  his  new  friends  said;  and  it  was  not  until  they 
retired,  yawning,  to  their  room  that  he  followed  the  child 
upstairs. 

She  had  little  money,  but  it  was  very  little,  and  when 
that  was  gone  they  must  begin  to  beg.  There  was  one  piece 
of  gold  among  it,  and  an  emergency  might  come  when  its 
worth  to  them  would  be  increased  a  hundredfold.  It  would 
be  best  to  hide  this  coin,  and  never  produce  it  unless  their 
case  was  absolutely  desperate,  and  no  other  resource  was 
left  them. 

Her  resolution  taken,  she  sewed  the  piece  of  gold  into 
her  dress,  and  going  to  bed  with  a  lighter  heart  sunk  into  a 
deep  slumber. 

"And  where  are  you  going  to-day?"  said  the  little  man 
the  following  morning,  addressing  himself  to  Nell. 

'*  Indeed  I  hardly  know — we  have  not  determined  yet," 
replied  the  child. 

**  We're  going  on  to  the  races,"  said  the  little  man. 
"  If  that's  your  way  and  you  like  to  have  us  for  company, 
let  us  travel  together.  If  you  prefer  going  alone,  only  say 
the  word  and  you'll  find  that  we  shan't  trouble  you.' 

"We'll  go  with  you,"  said  the  old  man.  "Nell — with 
them,  with  them." 


LITTLE  NELL  25 

The  child  considered  for  a  moment,  and  reflecting-  that 
she  must  shortly  beg-,  and  could  scarcely  hope  to  do  so  at  a 
better  place  than  where  crowds  of  rich  ladies  and  gentlemen 
were  assembled  together  for  purposes  of  enjoyment  and 
festivity,  determined  to  accompany  these  men  so  far.  She 
therefore  thanked  the  little  man  for  his  offer,  and  said, 
glancing-  timidly  toward  his  friend,  that  they  would  if  there 
was  no  objection  to  their  accompanying  them  as  far  as  the 
race-town. 

And  with  these  men  they  traveled  forward  on  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

They  made  two  long  days'  journey  with  their  new  com- 
panions, passing  through  villages  and  towns,  and  meeting 
upon  one  occasion  with  two  young  people  walking  upon 
stilts,  who  were  also  going  to  the  races. 

And  now  they  had  come  to  the  time  when  they  must 
beg  their  bread.  Soon  after  sunrise  the  second  morning 
she  stole  out,  and,  rambling  into  some  fields  at  a  short 
distance,  plucked  a  few  wild  roses  and  such  humble  flowers, 
purposing  to  make  them  into  little  nosegays  and  offer  them 
to  the  ladies  in  the  carriages  when  the  company  arrived. 
Her  thoughts  were  not  idle  while  she  was  thus  employed; 
when  she  returned  and  was  seated  beside  the  old  man,  tying 
her  flowers  together,  while  the  two  men  lay  dozing  in  a  cor- 
ner, she  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve,  and,  slightly  glancing 
toward  them,  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"Grandfather,  don't  look  at  those  I  talk  of,  and  don't 
seem  as  if  I  spoke  of  anything  but  what  I  am  about.  What 
was  that  you  told  me  before  we  left  the  old  house?  That  if 
they  knew  what  we  were  going  to  do,  they  would  say  that 
you  were  mad,  and  part  us?" 

The  old  man  turned  to  her  with  an  aspect  of  wild  ter- 


26  LITTLE  NELL 

ror;  but  she  checked  him  by  a  look,  and  bidding  him  hold 
some  flowers  while  she  tied  them  up,  and  so  bringfing^  her 
lips  closer  to  his  ear,  said : 

'*I  know  that  was  what  you  told  me.  You  needn't 
speak,  dear.  I  recollect  it  very  well.  It  is  not  likely  that 
I  should  forget  it.  Grandfather,  these  men  I  have  heard 
suspect  that  we  have  secretly  left  our  friends,  and  mean  to 
carry  us  before  some  gentleman  and  have  us  taken  care 
of  and  sent  back.  If  you  let  your  hand  tremble  so,  we  can 
never  get  away  from  them,  but  if  you're  only  quiet  now,  we 
shall  do  so  easily." 

**How?"  muttered  the  old  man.  ''Dear  Nell,  how? 
They  will  shut  me  up  in  a  stone-room,  dark  and  cold,  and 
chain  me  up  to  the  wall,  Nell — flog  me  with  whips,  and 
never  let  me  see  thee  more!" 

"You're  trembling  again,"  said  the  child.  ''  Keep  close 
to  me  all  day.  Never  mind  them,  don't  look  at  them,  but 
me.  I  shall  find  a  time  when  we  can  steal  away.  When  I 
do,  mind  you  come  with  me,  and  do  not  stop  or  speak  a 
word.     Hush!     That's  all." 

''Halloo!  what  are  you  up  to,  my  dear?"  said  Mr.  Cod- 
lin,  raising  his  head  and  yawning. 

"Making  some  nosegays,"  the  child  replied;  "I  am 
going  to  try  and  sell  some  these  three  days  of  the  races. 
Will  you  have  one — as  a  present,  I  mean?" 

Mr.  Codlin  would  have  risen  to  receive  it,  but  the  child 
hurried  toward  him  and  placed  it  in  his  hand,  and  he  stuck 
it  in  his  button-hole. 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  the  tents  at  the  race-course 
assumed  a  gayer  and  more  brilliant  appearance,  and  long 
lines  of  carriages  came  rolling  softly  on  the  turf.  Black- 
eyed    gypsy    girls,   hooded  in  showy  handkerchiefs,   sallied 


LITTLE  NELL  27 

forth  to  tell  fortunes,  and  pale,  slender  women  with  con- 
sumptive faces  lingered  upon  the  footsteps  of  ventriloquists 
and  conjurers,  and  counted  the  sixpences  with  anxious  eyes 
long  before  they  were  gained.  As  many  of  the  children  as 
could  be  kept  within  bounds  were  stowed  away,  with  all  the 
other  signs  of  dirt  and  poverty,  among  the  donkeys,  carts, 
and  horses ;  and  as  many  as  could  not  be  thus  disposed  of 
ran  in  and  out  in  all  intricate  spots,  crept  between  people's 
legs  and  carriage  wheels,  and  came  forth  unharmed  from 
under  horses'  hoofs.  The  dancing-dogs,  the  stilts,  the  little 
lady  and  the  tall  man,  and  all  the  other  attractions,  with 
organs  out  of  number  and  bands  innumerable,  emerged  from 
the  holes  and  corners  in  which  they  had  passed  the  night, 
and  flourished  boldly  in  the  sun. 

Along  the  uncleared  course  Short  led  his  party,  sounding 
the  brazen  trumpet  and  reveling  in  the  voice  of  Punch ;  and 
at  his  heels  went  Thomas  Codlin,  bearing  the  show  as  usual, 
and  keeping  his  eye  on  Nell  and  her  grandfather,  as  they 
rather  lingered  in  the  rear.  The  child  bore  upon  her  arm 
the  little  basket  with  her  flowers,  and  sometimes  stopped, 
with  timid  and  modest  looks,  to  offer  them  at  some  gay  car- 
riage; but  alas!  there  were  many  bolder  beggars  there, 
gypsies  who  promised  husbands,  and  other  adepts  in  their 
trade ;  and  although  some  ladies  smiled  gently  as  they  shook 
their  heads,  and  others  cried  to  the  gentlemen  beside  them, 
"See  what  a  pretty  face!"  they  let  the  pretty  face  pass  on, 
and  never  thought  that  it  looked  tired  or  hungry. 

There  was  but  one  lady  who  seemed  to  understand 
the  child,  and  she  was  one  who  sat  alone  in  a  handsome 
carriage,  while  two  young  men  in  dashing  clothes,  who  had 
just  dismounted  from  it,  talked  and  laughed  loudly  at  a  lit- 
tle distance,  appearing  to  forget  her,  quite.   There  were  many 


28 


LITTLE  NELL 


ladies  all  around,  but  they  turned  their  backs,  or  looked 
another  away,  or  at  the  two  young*  men  (not  unfavorably  at 
them)^  and  left  her  to  herself.  She  motioned  away  a  gypsy 
woman  urg-ent  to  tell  her  fortune,  saying-  that  it  was  told 
already  and  had  been  for  some  years,  but  called  the  child 
toward  her,  and,  taking-  her  flowers,  put  money  into  her  trem- 
bling- hand,  and  bade  her  g-o  home  and  keep  at  home. 

Many  a  time  they  went  up  and  down  those  long-,  long- 
lines,  seeing  everything  but  the  horses  and  the  race;  when 


"^/^m^ 


THEY  LAID  DOWN  AT  NIGHT  WITH    NOTHING  BETWEEN  THEM 

AND   THE   SKY. 

the  bell  rung  to  clear  the  course,  going  back  to  rest  among 
the  carts  and  donkeys,  and  not  coming  out  again  until  the 
heat  was  over.  Many  a  time,  too,  was  Punch  displayed  in 
the  full  zenith  of  his  humor;  but  all  this  while  the  eye  of 
Thomas  Codlin  was  upon  them,  and  to  escape  without  notice 
was  impracticable. 

At  length,  late  in  the  day,  Mr.  Codlin  pitched  the  show 
in  a  convenient  spot,  and  the  spectators  were  soon  in  the 
very  triumph  of  the  scene. 

If  they  were  ever  to  get  away  unseen,  that  was  the  very 
moment.       Short  was  plying  the   quarter-staves   vigorously 


s 


^■fT-  ^ 


-^. 


LITTLE  NEIili  29 

and  knocking-  the  characters  in  the  fury  of  the  combat  against 
the  sides  of  the  show,  the  people  were  looking-  on  with  laugh- 
ing- faces,  and  Mr.  Codlin  had  relaxed  into  a  g-rini  smile  as 
his  roving  eye  detected  hands  going-  into  waistcoat  pockets. 
If  they  were  ever  to  g-et  away  unseen,  that  was  the  very  mo- 
ment.    They  seized  it,  and  fled. 

They  made  a  path  through  booths  and  carriages  and 
throngs  of  people,  and  never  once  stopped  to  look  behind. 
The  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  course  was  cleared  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  ropes,  but  they  dashed  across  it,  insensible 
to  the  shouts  and  screeching  that  assailed  them  for  breaking 
in  upon  its  sanctity,  and,  creeping  under  the  brow  of  the  hill 
at  a  quick  pace,  made  for  the  open  fields. 

That  night  they  reached  a  little  village  in  a  woody  hol- 
low. The  village  schoolmaster,  a  good  and  gentle  man, 
pitying  their  weariness,  and  attracted  by  the  child's  sweet- 
ness and  modesty,  gave  them  a  lodging  for  the  night;  nor 
would  he  let  them  leave  him  until  two  days  more  had  passed. 

They  journeyed  on,  when  the  time  came  that  they  must 
wander  forth  again,  by  pleasant  country  lanes;  and  as  they 
passed,  watching  the  birds  that  perched  and  twittered  in  the 
branches  overhead,  or  listening  to  the  songs  that  broke  the 
happy  silence,  their  hearts  were  tranquil  and  serene.  But 
by-and-by  they  came  to  a  long  winding  road  which  length- 
ened out  far  into  the  distance,  and  though  they  still  kept  on,^ 
it  was  at  a  much  slower  pace,  for  they  were  now  very  weary 
and  fatigued. 

The  afternoon  had  worn  away  into  a  beautiful  evening, 
when  they  arrived  at  a  point  where  the  road  made  a  sharp 
turn  and  struck  across  a  common.  On  the  border  of  this 
common,  and  close  to  the  hedge  which  divided  it  from  the 
cultivated    fields,   a  caravan   was   drawn    up  to   rest;   upon 


3C 


LITTLE  NELL 


which,  by  reason  of  its  situation,  they  came  so  suddenly 
that  they  could  not  have  avoided  it  if  they  would. 

It  was  not  a  shabby,  dingy,  dusty  cart,  but  a  smart 
little  house  upon  wheels,  with  white  dimity  curtains  festoon- 
ing the  windows,  and  window-shutters  of  green  picked  out 

with  panels 
of  a  staring 
red,  in  which 
happily-con- 
t  r  a  s  t  e  d 
colors  the 
whole  con- 
cern shone 
brillia  n  t. 
Neither  was 
it  a  poor 
caravan 
drawn  by  a 
single 
donkey  or 
emaciated 
horse,  for  a 

pair  of  horses  in  pretty  good  condition  were  released 
from  the  shafts  and  grazing  on  the  frouzy  grass.  Neither 
was  it  a  gypsy  caravan,  for  at  the  open  door  (graced  with 
a  bright  brass  knocker)  sat  a  Christian  lady,  stout  and 
comfortable  to  look  upon,  who  wore  a  large  bonnet  trem- 
bling with  bows.  And  that  it  was  not  an  unprovided  or 
destitute  caravan  was  clear  from  this  lady's  occupation, 
which  was  the  very  pleasant  and  refreshing  one  of  taking  tea. 
The  tea-things,  including  a  bottle  of  rather  suspicious 
character  and  a  cold  knuckle  of  ham,  were  set  forth  upon  a 


"UPON  ONE  OCCASION,  THEY  MET  TWO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 
■WALKING  ON  STILTS." 


LITTLE  NELL 


31 


drum,  covered  with  a  white  napkin;  and  there,  as  if  at  the 
most  convenient  round-table  in  all  the  world,  sat  this  rovingf 
lady,  taking  her  tea  and  enjoying  the  prospect. 

It  happened  at  that  moment  that  the  lady  of  the  caravan 
had  her  cup  (which,  that  everything-  about  her  might  be  of 
a  stout  and  comfortable  kind,  was  a  breakfast  cup)  to  her 

lips,     and     that 
having  her  eyes 
lifted  to  the  sky 
in  her  enjoyment 
of  the  full  flavor 
of  her  tea,   it 
happened    that 
being     thus 
agreeably  en- 
gaged,   she    did 
not    see   the 
travelers  when 
they    first    came 
up.      It  was  not 
until  she  was  in 
the  act  of  setting 
down    the    cup, 
and    drawing   a 
^  long     breath    after    the  ex- 
ertion of    causing    its    con-' 
tents  to  disappear,  that  the 
lady  of  the   caravan  beheld 
an  old    man    and   a  young 
MRS.  jARLEY.  ^.j^jj^^  Walking  slowly  by,  and 

glancing"  at  her  proceedings  with  eyes  of  modest  but 
hungry  admiration. 


32  LITTLE  NELL 

'*Hey?"  cried  the  lady  of  the  caravan,  scooping-  the 
crumbs  out  of  her  lap  and  swallowing-  the  same  before 
wiping-  her  lips.  "Yes,  to  be  sure — who  won  the  Helter- 
Skelter  Plate,  child?"     "Won  what,   ma'am?"   asked  Nell. 

"The  Helter-Skelter  Plate  at  the  races,  child — the  plate 
that  was  run  for  on  the  second  day." 
On  the  second  day,  ma'am?" 

Second  day!  Yes,  second  day,"  repeated  the  lady, with 
an  air  of  impatience.  "Can't  you  say  who  won  the  Helter- 
Skelter  Plate  when  you're  asked  the  question  civilly?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am." 

"Don't  know!"  repeated  the  lady  of  the  caravan  ;  "why, 
you  were  there.     I  saw  you  with  my  own  eyes." 

Nell  was  not  a  little  alarmed  to  hear  this,  supposing 
that  the  lady  might  be  intimately  acquainted  with  the  firm 
of  Short  and  Codlin ;  but  what  followed  tended  to  reas- 
sure her. 

"And  very  sorry  I  was,"  said  the  lady  of  the  caravan, 
"to  see  you  in  company  with  a  Punch — a  low,  practical, 
vulgar  wretch,  that  people  should  scorn  to  look  at." 

"I  was  not  there  by  choice,"  returned  the  child;  "we 
didn't  know  our  way,  and  the  two  men  were  very  kind  to  us, 
and  let  us  travel  with  them.     Do  you — do  you  know  them, 

• 

Know  'em  child?"  cried  the  lady  of  the  caravan,  in  a 
sort  of  shriek.  "  Know  them!  But  you're  young-  and  inex- 
perienced, and  that's  your  excuse  for  asking-  sich  a  question. 
Do  I  look  as  if  I  know'd  'em?  Does  the  caravan  look  as  if 
//know'd  'em?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  no,"  said  the  child,  fearing  she  had  com- 
mitted some  grievous  fault.     "  I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  was  in  the  act  of  gathering-  her 


ma  amr 


LITTLE  NELL  33 

tea  equipage  tog-ether  preparatory  to  clearing  the  table, 
but  noting  the  child's  anxious  manner,  she  hesitated  and 
stopped.  The  child  courtesied,  and  giving  her  hand  to  the 
old  man,  had  already  got  some  fifty  yards  or  so  away,  when 
the  lady  of  the  caravan  called  to  her  to  return. 

''Come  nearer,  nearer  still,"  said  she,  beckoning  to  her 
to  ascend  the  steps.      "Are  you  hungry,  child?" 

"Not  very,  but  we  are  tired,  and  it's — it  is  a  long 
way — " 

"Well,  hungry  or  not,  you  had  better  have  some  tea," 
rejoined  her  new  acquaintance.  "I  suppose  you  are  agree- 
able to  that,  old  gentleman?" 

The  grandfather  humbly  pulled  off  his  hat  and  thanked 
her.  The  lady  of  the  caravan  then  bade  him  come  up  the 
steps  likewise,  but  the  drum  proving  an  inconvenient  table 
for  two,  they  descended  again,  and  sat  upon  the  grass, 
where  she  handed  down  to  them  the  tea-tray,  the  bread  and 
butter,  and  the  knuckle  of  ham. 

"Set  'em  out  near  the  hind  wheels,  child,  that's  the  best 
place,"  said  their  friend,  superintending  the  arrangements 
from  above.  "  Now  hand  up  the  tea-pot  for  a  little  more 
hot  water  and  a  pinch  of  fresh  tea,  and  then  both  of  you  eat 
and  drink  as  much  as  you  can,  and  don't  spare  anything; 
that's  all  I  ask  of  you." 

The  mistress  of  the  caravan,  saying  the  girl  and  her 
grandfather  could  not  be  very  heavy,  invited  them  to  go 
along  with  them  for  a  while,  for  which  Nell  thanked  her 
with  unaffected  earnestness. 

When  they  had  traveled  slowly  forward  for  some  short 
distance,  Nell  ventured  to  steal  a  look  round  the  caravan 
and  observe  it  more  closely.  One  half  of  it — that  moiety  iu 
which    the  comfortable    proprietress  was  then  seated — was 

3 


34  LITTLE  NELL 

carpeted,  and  so  partitioned  off  at  the  farther  end  as  to  ac- 
commodate a  sleeping-place,  constructed  after  the  fashion  of 
a  berth  on  board  ship,  which  was  shaded,  like  the  little  win- 
dows, with  fair  white  curtains,  and  looked  comfortable 
enoug-h,  though  by  what  kind  of  gymnastic  exercise  the 
lady  of  the  caravan  ever  contrived  to  get  into  it  was  an  un- 
fathomable mystery.  The  other  half  served  for  a  kitchen,  and 
was  fitted  up  with  a  stove  whose  small  chimney  passed 
through  the  roof. 

The  mistress  sat  looking  at  the  child  for  a  long  time  in 
silence,  and  then,  getting  up,  brought  out  from  a  corner  a 
large  roll  of  canvas  about  a  yard  in  width,  which  she  laid 
upon  the  floor  and  spread  open  with  her  foot  until  it  nearly 
reached  from  one  end  of  the  caravan  to  the  other. 

"There,  child,"  she  said,  "read  that." 

Nell  walked  down  it,  and  read  aloud,  in  enormous  black 
letters,  the  inscription,  "Jarley's  Wax-work." 

"Read  it  again,"  said  the  lady,  complacently. 

"Jarley's  Wax-work,"  repeated  Nell. 

"That's  me,"  said  the  lady.   "I  am  Mrs.   Jarley." 

Giving  the  child  an  encouraging  look,  the  lady  of  the 
caravan  unfolded  another  scroll,  whereon  was  the  inscrip- 
tion ;  "One  hundred  figures  the  full  size  of  life;"  and  then 
another  scroll,  on  which  was  written,  "The  only  stupendous 
collection  of  real  wax-work  in  the  world;"  and  then  several 
smaller  scrolls,  with  such  inscriptions  as  "Now  exhibiting 
within" — "The  genuine  and  only  Jarley" — "Jarley's  un- 
rivaled collection" — "Jarley  is  the  delight  of  the  Nobility 
and  Gentry" — "The  Royal  Family  are  the  patrons  of 
Jarley."  When  she  had  exhibited  these  leviathans  of  public 
announcement  to  the  astonished  child  she  brought  forth 
specimens  of  the  lesser  fry  in  the  shape  of  handbills,   some 


LITTLE  NELL 


35 


of  which  were  couched  in  the  form  of  parodies  on  popular 
melodies,  as  ** Believe  me  if  all  Jarley's  wax-work  so  rare" 
— "I  saw  thy  show  in  youthful  prime" — ''Over  the  water 
to  Jarley ;"  while,  to  consult  all  tastes,  others  were  composed 
with  a  view  to  the  lighter  and  more  facetious  spirits,  as  a 
parody  on  the  favorite  air  of  *'If  I  had  a  donkey,"  beginning 


If  I  know'd  a  donkey  wot  wouldn't  go 
To  see  Mrs.  Jarley's  wax  work  show, 
Do  you  think  I'd  acknowledge  him  ? 
Oh  no,  no  ! 

Then  run  to  Jarley's ■ 


besides  several  compositions  in 
prose,  purporting  to  be  dialogues . 
between   the  Emperor  of  China 
and  an  oyster. 

**I  never  saw  any  wax-work, 
ma'am,"  said  Nell.  "Is  it 
funnier  than  Punch?" 

''Funnier!"  said  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley,  in  a  shrill  voice.  **It  is  not 
funny  at  all." 

"Oh!"  said  Nell,  with  all 
possible  humility. 

"It  isn't  funny  at  all,"  re- 
peated Mrs.  Jarley.  "It's  calm 
and — what's  that  word  again — 
critical? — no — classical,  that's  it 
— it's  calm  and  classical.  No 
low     beatings     and     knockings  ^^^^  ^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  po^^^^^ 

about,  no  jokings   and   squeak-       °"''7/r1e?'s  waxI'work.''''"* 

ings  like  your  precious  Punches, 

but  always  the  same,    with   a    constantly  unchanging  air  of 


^    "Sf-    "ZS      J 


36  LITTLE  NELL 

coldness  and  gentility;  and  so  like  life  that,  if  wax- work 
only  spoke  and  walked  about,  you'd  hardly  know  the  differ- 
ence. I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,  as  it  is,  I've  seen 
wax-work  quite  like  life,  but  I've  certainly  seen  some  life 
that  was  exactly  like  wax- work." 

This  conference  at  length  concluded,  she  beckoned  Nell 
to    sit    down. 

''And  the  old  gentleman,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley;  **for  I 
want  to  have  a  word  with  him.  Do  you  want  a  good  situa- 
tion for  your  grand-daughter,  master?  If  you  do,  I  can  put 
her  in  the  way  of  getting  one.     What  do  you  say?  " 

''I  can't  leave  her,"  answered  the  old  man.  "V/e  can't 
separate.     What  would  become  of  me  without  her?" 

"If  you're  really  disposed  to  employ  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Jarley,  "there  would  be  plenty  for  you  to  do  in  the  way  of 
helping  to  dust  the  figures,  and  take  the  checks,  and  so  forth. 
What  I  want  your  grand-daughter  for  is  to  point  'em  out  to 
the  company;  they  would  be  soon  learned,  and  she  has  a 
way  with  her  that  people  wouldn't  think  unpleasant,  though 
she  does  come  after  me;  for  I've  been  always  accustomed  to 
go  around  with  visitors  myself,  which  I  should  keep  on 
doing  now,  only  that  my  spirits  make  a  little  ease  abso- 
lutely necessary.  It's  not  a  common  offer,  bear  in  mind," 
said  the  lady,  rising  into  the  tone  and  manner  in  which  she 
was  accustomed  to  address  her  audiences;  "it's  Jarley's  wax- 
work, remember.  The  duty's  very  light  and  genteel,  the 
company  particularly  select,  the  exhibition  takes  place  in 
assembly-rooms,  town  halls,  large  rooms  at  inns,  or  auction 
galleries.  There  is  none  of  your  open-air  wagrancy  at 
Jarley's,  recollect;  there  is  no  tarpaulin  and  sawdust  at 
Jarley's,  remember.  Every  expectation  held  out  in  the  hand- 
bills is  realized  to  the  utmost,  and  the  whole  forms  an  effect 


LITTLE  NELL  37 

of  imposing-  brilliancy  hitherto  unrivaled  in  this  kingdom. 
Remember  that  the  price  of  admission  is  only  sixpence,  and 
that  this  is  an  opportunity  which  may  never  occur  again!  " 

"We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you,  ma'am,"  said  Nell, 
**and  thankfully  accept  your  offer." 

''And  you'll  never  be  sorry  for  it,"  returned  Mrs,  Jarley. 
*'Vm  pretty  sure  of  that.  So  as  that's  all  settled,  let  us  have 
a  bit  of  supper." 

Rumbling  along-  with  most  unwonted  noise,  the  cara- 
van stopped  at  last  at  the  place  of  exhibition,  where  Nell  dis- 
mounted amidst  an  admiring  group  of  children,  who  evident- 
ly supposed  her  to  be  an  important  item  of  the  curiosities, 
and  were  fully  impressed  with  the  belief  that  her  grandfather 
was  a  cunning  device  in  wax.  The  chests  were  taken  out  of 
the  van  for  the  figures  with  all  convenient  dispatch,  and 
taken  in  to  be  unlocked  by  Mrs.  Jarley,  who,  attended  by 
George  and  the  driver,  disposed  their  contents  (consisting  of 
red  festoons  and  other  ornamental  devices  in  upholstery  work) 
to  the  best  advantage  in  the  decoration  of  the  room. 

When  the  festoons  were  all  put  up  as  tastily  as  they 
might  be,  the  stupendous  collection  was  uncovered,  and 
there  were  displayed,  on  a  raised  platform  some  two  feet 
from  the  floor,  running  round  the  room  and  parted  from  the 
rude  public  by  a  crimson  rope,  breast  high,  divers  sprightly 
effigies  of  celebrated  characters,  singly  and  in  groups,  clad 
in  glittering-  dresses  of  various  climes  and  times  and  stand" 
\ng  more  or  less  unsteadily  upon  their  legs,  with  their  eyes 
very  wide  open,  and  their  nostrils  very  much  inflated,  and  the 
muscles  of  their  legs  and  arms  very  strongly  developed,  and 
all  their  countenances  expressing-  great  surprise.  All  the  gen- 
tlemen were  very  pigeon-breasted  and  very  blue  about  the 
beards;  and  all  the  ladies  were  miraculous  figures;  and  all 


38 


LITTLE  NELL 


the  ladies  and  all       | 
the  gentlemen  were 
^looking-  intensely  nowhere, 
and    staringf    with    extraor- 
dinary earnestness  at  noth 
ing. 

When  Nell  had  exhausted  her  first  raptures  at  this 
glorious  sight,  Mrs.  Jarley  ordered  the  room  to  be  cleared 
of    all    but    herself    and    the    child,    and    sitting    herself 


NELL  AND  HER  GRANDFATHER  IN 
THE  CHURCHYARD. 


LITTLE  NELL  39 

down  in  an  arm-chair  in  the  centre,  formally  invested  Nell 
with  a  willow  wand,  long-  used  by  herself  for  pointing  out 
the  characters,  and  was  at  great  pains  to  instruct  her  in  her 
duty. 

"That,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  in  her  exhibition  tone,  as 
Nell  touched  a  figure  at  the  beginning  of  the  platform,  **is 
an  unfortunate  maid  of  honor  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
who  died  from  pricking  her  finger  in  consequence  of  working 
upon  a  Sunday.  Observe  the  blood  which  is  trickling  from 
her  finger;  also  the  gold-eyed  needle  of  the  period,  with 
which  she  is  at  work." 

All  this  Nell  repeated  twice  or  thrice, — pointing  to  the 
finger  and  the  needle  at  the  right  times;  and  then  passed  on 
to  the  next. 

"That,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  "is 
Jasper  Packlemerton,  of  atrocious  memory,  who  courted 
and  married  fourteen  wives,  and  destroyed  them  all,  by 
tickling  the  soles  of  their  feet  when  they  were  sleeping-  in  the 
consciousness  of  innocence  and  virtue.  On  being  brought 
to  the  scaffold  and  asked  if  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had 
done,  he  replied  yes,  he  was  sorry  for  having-  let  'em  off  so 
easy,  and  hoped  all  Christian  husbands  would  pardon  him 
the  offense.  Let  this  be  a  warning-  to  all  young  ladies  to  be 
particular  in  the  character  of  the  gentlemen  of  their  choice. 
Observe  that  his  fingers  are  curled  as  if  in  the  act  of  tickling", 
and  that  his  face  is  represented  with  a  wink,  as  he  appeared 
when  committing-  his  barbarous  murders." 

When  Nell  knew  all  about  Mr.  Packlemerton,  and 
could  say  it  without  faltering,  Mrs.  Jarley  passed  on  to  the 
fat  man,  and  then  to  the  thin  man,  the  tall  man,  the  short 
man,  the  old  lady  who  died  of  dancing  at  a  hundred  and 
thirty-two,    the   wild    boy  of  the   woods,    the  woman   who 


40  LITTLE  NELL 

poisoned  fourteen  families  with  pickled  walnuts,  and  other 
historical  characters  and  interesting  but  misguided  individ- 
uals. And  so  well  did  Nell  profit  by  her  instructions,  and  so 
apt  was  she  to  remember  them,  that  by  the  time  they  had 
been  shut  up  together  for  a  couple  of  hours,  she  was  in  full 
possession  of  the  history  of  the  whole  establishment,  and 
perfectly  competent  to  the  enlightenment  of  visitors. 

For  some  time  her  life  and  the  life  of  the  poor  vacant 
old  man  passed  quietly  and  happily. 

But  heavier  sorrow  was  yet  to  come.  One  night,  a 
holiday  night  for  them,  Nell  and  her  grandfather  went  out 
to  walk.  A  terrible  thunder-storm  coming  on,  they  were 
forced  to  take  refuge  in  a  small  public  house ;  and  here  some 
sinister  and  ill-favored  men  were  playing  cards.  The  old 
man  watched  them  with  increasing  interest  and  excite- 
ment, until  his  whole  appearance  underwent  a  complete 
change.  His  face  was  flushed  and  eager,  his  teeth  set. 
With  a  hand  that  trembled  violently  he  seized  Nell's  little 
purse,  and  in  spite  of  her  entreaties  joined  in  the  game,  gam- 
bling with  such  a  savage  thirst  for  gain  that  the  distressed 
and  frightened  child  could  almost  better  have  borne  to 
see  him  dead.  The  night  was  far  advanced  before  the  play 
came  to  an  end,  and  they  were  forced  to  remain  where  they 
were  until  the  morning.  And  in  the  night  the  child  was 
wakened  from  her  troubled  sleep  to  find  a  figure  in  the 
room — a  figure  busying  its  hands  about  her  garments,  while 
its  face  was  turned  to  her,  listening  and  looking  lest  she 
should  awake.  It  was  her  grandfather  himself,  his  white 
face  pinched  and  sharpened  by  the  greediness  which  made 
his  eyes  unnaturally  bright,  counting  the  money  of  which 
his  hands  were  robbing  her. 

Evening  after   evening,    after    that  night  the  old  man 


LITTLE  NELIi  41 

would  steal  away,  not  to  return  until  the  nig^ht  was  far  spent, 
demanding-,  wildly,  money.  And  at  last  there  came  an  hour 
when  the  child  overheard  him,  tempted  beyond  his  feeble 
powers  of  resistance,  undertake  to  find  more  money  to  feed 
the  desperate  passion  which  had  laid  its  hold  upon  his  weak- 
ness by  robbing-  Mrs.  Jarley.  ! 

That  night  the  child  took  her  grandfather  by  the  hand 
and  led  him  forth.  Through  the  straight  streets  and  narrow 
outskirts  of  the  town  their  trembling- feet  passed  quickly;  the 
child  sustained  by  one  idea— that  they  were  flying  from  dis- 
grace and  criii.e,  and  that  her  grandfather's  preservation 
must  depend  solely  upon  her  firmness  unaided  by  one  word 
of  advice  or  any  helping  hand — the  old  man  following  her  as 
though  she  had  been  an  angel  messenger  sent  to  lead  him 
where  she  would. 

The  hardest  part  of  all  their  wanderings  was  now  be- 
fore them.  They  slept  in  the  open  air  that  night,  and  on  the 
following  morning  some  men  offered  to  take  them  a  long 
distance  on  their  barge.  These  men,  though  they  were 
not  unkindly,  were  very  rugged,  noisy  fellows,  and  they  drank 
and  quarreled  fearfully  among  themselves,  to  Nell's  inex- 
pressible terror.  It  rained,  too,  heavily,  and  she  was  wet 
and  cold.  At  last  they  reached  the  great  city  whither  the 
barge  was  bound,  and  here  they  wandered  up  and  down,  be 
ing  now  penniless, and  watched  the  faces  of  those  who  passed, 
to  find  among  them  a  ray  of  encouragement  or  hope.  Ill  in 
body,  and  sick  to  death  at  heart,  the  child  needed  her  utmost 
firmness  and  resolution  even  to  creep  along. 

They  laid  down  that  night,  and  the  next  night  too, 
with  nothing  between  them  and  the  sky ;  a  penny  loaf  was 
all  they  had  had  that  day,  and  when  the  third  morning  came, 
it  found  the  child  much  weaker,  yet  she  made  no  complaint. 


<3  LITTLE  NELL 

The  great  manufacturing  city  hemmed  them  in  on  every  side, 
and  seemed  to  shut  out  hope. 

Faint  and  spiritless  as  they  were,  its  streets  were  in- 
supportable. After  humbly  asking  for  relief  at  some  few 
doors,  and  being  repulsed,  they  agreed  to  make  their  way 
out  of  it  as  speedily  as  they  could,  and  try  if  the  inmates  of 
any  lone  house  beyond  would  have  more  pity  on  their 
exhausted  state. 

They  were  dragging  themselves  along  through  the  last 
street,  and  the  child  felt  that  the  time  was  close  at  hand 
when  her  enfeebled  powers  would  bear  no  more.  There  ap- 
peared before  them,  at  this  juncture,  going  in  the  same  di- 
rection as  themselves,  a  traveler  on  foot,  who,  with  a  port- 
manteau strapped  to  his  back,  leaned  upon  a  stout  stick  as 
he  walked,  and  read  from  a  book  which  he  held  in  his 
other  hand. 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  come  up  with  him  and  be- 
seech his  aid,  for  he  walked  fast,  and  was  a  little  distance  in 
advance.  At  length  he  stopped,  to  look  more  attentively  at 
some  passage  in  his  book.  Animated  with  a  ray  of  hope, 
the  child  shot  on  before  her  grandfather,  and,  going  close  to 
to  the  stranger  without  rousing  him  by  the  sound  of  her  foot- 
steps, began,  in  a  few  faint  words,  to  implore  his  help. 

He  turned  his  head.  The  child  clapped  her  hands  to- 
gether, uttered  a  wild  shriek  and  fell  senseless  at  his  feet. 

It  was  the  poor  schoolmaster.  No  other  than  the  poor 
schoolmaster.  Scarcely  less  moved  and  surprised  by  the 
sight  of  the  child  than  she  had  been  on  recognizing  him,  he 
stood,  for  a  moment,  silent,  without  even  the  presence  of 
mind  to  raise  her  from  the  ground. 

But,  quickly  recovering  his  self-possession,  he  threw 
down  his  stick  and  book,  and  dropping  on  one  knee  beside 


LITTLE  NELL 


43 


her,  endeavored,  by  such  simple  means  as  occurred  to  him, 
to  restore  her  to  herself;  while  her  grandfather,  standing-  idly 


"SHE  WOULD  STEAL  INTO  THE   CHURCH  AND  SIT  UPON  THE  TOMBS." 


by,  wrung  his  hands,  and  implored  her,   with  many   endear- 
ing expressions,  to  speak  to  him,  were  it  only  a  word. 

"She  appears  to  be  quite  exhausted,"  said  the  school- 
master, glancing  upward  into  his  face.  "You  have  taxed 
her  powers  too  far,  friend." 


44  LITTLE  NELL 

"She  is  perishing-  of  want,"  rejoined  the  old  man.  *I 
never  thought  how  weak  and  ill  she  was  till  now." 

Casting"  a  look  upon  him,  half  reproachful  and  half  com- 
passionate, the  schoolmaster  took  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
bidding  the  old  man  g-ather  up  her  little  basket  and  follow 
him  directly,  bore  her  away  at  his  utmost  speed. 

There  was  a  small  inn  within  sight,  to  which,  it  would 
seem,  he  had  been  directing-  his  steps  when  so  unexpectedly 
overtaken.  Toward  this  place  he  hurried  with  his  uncon- 
scious burden,  and  rushing  into  the  kitchen,  and  calling 
upon  the  company  there  assembled  to  make  way  for  God's 
sake,  deposited  it  on  a  chair  before  the  fire. 

The  company,  who  rose  in  confusion  on  the  schoolmas- 
ter's entrance,  did  as  people  usually  do  under  such  circum- 
stances. Everybody  called  for  his  or  her  favorite  remedy, 
which  nobody  brought;  each  cried  for  more  air,  at  the  same 
time  carefully  excluding-  what  air  there  was  by  closing-  around 
the  object  of  sympathy;  and  all  wondered  why  somebody  else 
didn't  do  what  it  never  appeared  to  occur  to  them  might  be 
done  by  themselves. 

The  landlady,  however,  who  possessed  more  readiness 
and  activity  than  any  one  of  them,  and  who  had  withal  a  quick- 
er perception  of  the  merits  of  the  case,  soon  came  running  in, 
with  a  little  hot  brandy-and-water,  followed  by  her  servant- 
girl,  carrying-  vinegar,  hartshorn,  smelling-salts,  and  such 
other  restoratives ;  which,  being-  duly  administered,  recovered 
the  child  so  far  as  to  enable  her  to  thank  them  in  a  faint 
voice,  and  to  extend  her  hand  to  the  poor  schoolmaster,  who 
stood,  with  an  anxious  face,  hard  by.  Without  suffering  her 
to  speak  another  word,  or  so  much  as  to  stir  a  finger  any 
more,  the  women  straightway  carried  her  off  to  bed ;  and, 
having  covered   her   up   warm,  bathed    her   cold    feet,   and 


LITTLE  NELL  45 

wrapped    them    in  flannel,  they  dispatched  a  messeng-er  for 
the  doctor. 

The  doctor,  who  was  a  red-nosed  gentleman  with  a  great 
bunch  of  seals  dangling  below  a  waist  coat  of  ribbed  black 
satin,  arrived  with  all  speed,  and  taking  his  seat  by  the  bed- 
side  of  poor  Nell,  drew  out  his  watch,  and  felt  her  pulse. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  tongue,  then  he  felt  her  pulse  again, 
and  while  he  did  so,  he  eyed  the  half-emptied  wine-glass  as  if 
in  profound  abstraction. 

'*I  should  give  her,"  said  the  doctor  at  length,  "a  tea- 
spoonful,  every  now  and  then,  of  hot  brandy-and- water." 

''Why  that's  exactly  what  we've  done,  sir!"  said  the 
delighted  landlady. 

"I  should  also,"  observed  the  doctor,  who  had  passed 
the  foot-bath  on  the  stairs,  '*I  should  also,"  said  the  doctor, 
in  the  voice  of  an  oracle,  ''put  her  feet  in  hot  water  and 
wrap  them  up  in  flannel.  I  should  likewise,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, with  increased  solemnity,  "give  her  something  light  for 
supper — the  wing  of  a  roasted  fowl  now " 

"Why;  goodness  gracious  me,  sir,  it's  cooking  at  the 
kitchen  fire  this  instant!"  cried  the  landlady.  And  so,  indeed, 
it  was,  for  the  school-master  had  ordered  it  to  be  put  down, 
and  it  was  getting  on  so  well  that  the  doctor  might  have 
smelled  it  if  he  had  tried ;  perhaps  he  did. 

"You  may  then,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  gravely,  "give 
her  a  glass  of  hot  mulled  port-wine,  if  she  likes  wine " 

'And  a  toast,  sir?"  suggested  the  landlady. 

'Ay,"  said  the  doctor,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
makes  a  dignified  concession.  "And  a  toast — of  bread. 
But  be  very  particular  to  make  it  of   bread,  if  you  please. 


ma'am." 


kill. 

With  which  parting  injunction,  slowly  and  portentously 


46  LITTLE  NELL 

delivered,  the  doctor  departed,  leaving-  the  whole  house  in 
admiration  of  that  wisdom  which  tallied  so  closely  with  their 
own.  Everybody  said  he  was  a  very  shrewd  doctor;  indeed, 
and  knew  perfectly  what  people's  constitutions  were ;  which 
there  appears  some  reason  to  suppose  he  did. 

While  her  supper  was  preparing,  the  child  fell  into  a 
refreshing-  sleep,  from  which  they  were  obliged  to  rouse  her 
when  it  was  ready.  As  she  evinced  extraordinary  uneasi- 
ness on  learning  that  her  grandfather  was  below  stairs,  and 
as  she  was  greatly  troubled  at  the  thought  of  their  being 
apart,  he  took  his  supper  with  her.  Finding  her  still  very 
restless  on  this  head,  they  made  him  up  a  bed  in  an  inner 
room,  to  which  he  presently  retired.  The  key  of  this 
chamber  happened  by  good-fortune  to  be  on  that  side  of  the 
door  which  was  in  Nell's  room;  she  turned  it  on  him  when 
the  landlady  had  withdrawn,  and  crept  to  bed  again  with  a 
thankful  heart. 

The  schoolmaster  sat  for  a  long  time  smoking  his  pipe 
by  the  kitchen  fire,  which  was  now  deserted;  thinking,  with 
a  very  happy  face,  on  the  fortunate  chance  which  had 
brought  him  so  opportunely  to  the  child's  assistance. 

The  schoolmaster,  as  it  appeared,  was  on  his  way  to  a 
(new  home.  And  when  the  child  had  recovered  somewhat 
from  her  exhaustion,  it  was  arranged  that  she  and  her 
grandfather  should  accompany  him  to  the  village  whither  he 
was  bound,  and  that  he  should  endeavor  to  find  them  some 
humble  occupation  by  which  they  could  subsist. 

It  was  a  secluded  village,  lying  among  the  quiet  country 
scenes  Nell  loved.  And  here,  her  grandfather  being  tranquil 
and  at  rest,  a  great  peace  fell  upon  the  spirit  of  the  child. 
Often  she  would  steal  into  the  church,  and,  sitting  down 
among  the  quiet  figures  carved  upon  the  tombs,  would  think 


LITTLE  NELL 


47 


of  the  summer  days 
spring-- time     that 
the  rays  of  sun  that 
aslant    those    sleep- 
song-s   of  birds,  and 
would    steal   in. 
awakened    thoughts 
would  be  no  pain  to 
sights  and 
sounds  as 
these. 
For    the 
time  was 
drawing- 


and  the  b  r  i  gf  h  t 
would  come ;  o  f 
would  fall  in, 
ing  forms;  of  the 
the  sweet  air  that 
What  if  the  spot 
of  death!  It 
sleep    amid    such 


DAY   AFTER   DAY   THE   OLD  MAN    WOULD  SIT   BESIDE    HER  GRAVE 

nearer  every  day  when  Nell  was  to  rest  indeed.  She  never 
murmured  or  complained,  but  faded  like  a  light  upon  a 
summer's  evening-  and  died.  Day  after  day  and  all  day 
long,  the  old  man,  broken-hearted  and  with  no  love  or  care 
for  anything-  in  life,  would  sit  beside  her  g-rave  with  her 
straw  hat  and  the  little  basket  she  had  been  used  to  carry, 
waiting-  till  she  should  come  to  him  again.  At  last  they  found 
him  lyingf  dead  upon  the  stone.  And  in  the  church  where 
they  had  often  prayed  and  mused  and  lingered,  hand  in 
hand,  the  child  and  the  old  man  slept  together. 


Little  Dorrit. 


MANY  years  ag-o,  when  people  could  be  put  in  prison 
for  debt,  a  poor  g-entleman,  who  was  unfortunate 
enough  to  lose  all  his  money,  was  brought  to  the 
Marshalsea  prison.  As  there  seemed  no  prospect  of  beings 
able  to  pay  his  debts,  his  wife  and  their  two  little  children 
came  to  live  there  with  him.  The  elder  child  was  a  boy  of 
three;  the  younger  a  little  g-irl  of  two  years  old,  and  not  long 
afterwards  another  little  girl  was  born.  The  three  children 
played  in  the  courtyard,  and  were  happy  on  the  whole,  for 
they  were  too  young  to  remember  a  happier  state  of  things. 

But  the  youngest  child,  who  had  never  been  outside  the 
prison  walls,  was  a  thoughtful  little  creature,  and  wondered 
what  the  outside  world  could  be  like.  Her  great  friend,  the 
turnkey,  who  was  also  her  godfather,  became  very  fond  of 
her,  and  as  soon  as  she  could  walk  and  talk  he  bought  a 
little  arm-chair  and  stood  it  by  his  fire  at  the  lodge,  and 
coaxed  her  with  cheap  toys  to  come  and  sit  with  him.  In 
return  the  child  loved  him  dearly,  and  would  often  bring  her 
doll  to  dress  and  undress  as  she  sat  in  the  little  arm-chair. 
She  was  still  a  very  tiny  creature  when  she  began  to  under- 
stand that  everyone  did  not  live  locked  up  inside  high  walls 
with  spikes  at  the  top,  and  though  she  and  the  rest  of  the 
family  might  pass  through  the  door  that  the  great  key  opened, 
her  father  could  not;  and  she  would  look  at  him  with  a 
wondering  pity  in  her  tender  little  heart. 

One  day,  she  was  sitting  in  the  lodge  gazing  wistfully 

up  at  the  sky  through  the  barred  window.     The   turnkey, 

after  watching  her  some  time,  said : 

48 


LITTLE  DORRIT  49 


<  ( 


Thinking-  of  the  fields,  ain't  you?" 

Where  are  they?"  she  asked. 
''Why,  they're — over  there,  my  dear,"  said  the  turnkey, 
waving-  his  key  vaguely,  "just  about  there." 

*' Does  anybody  open  them  and  shut  them?  Are  they 
locked?" 

''Well,"  said  the  turnkey,  discomfited,  "  not  in  g-eneral." 
"Are  they  pretty,  Bob?"     She  called  him  Bob,  because 
he  wished  it. 

"Lovely.  Full  of  flowers.  There's  buttercups  and 
there's  daisies,  and  there's — "  here  he  hesitated,  not  know- 
ing- the  names  of  many  flowers — "there's  dandelions,  and  all 
manner  of  games." 

Is  it  very  pleasant  to  be  there,  Bob?" 

Prime,"  said  the  turnkey. 

Was  father  ever  there?" 

Hem !  "  coughed  the  turnkey.  "  Oh,  yes,  he  was  there, 
sometimes." 

Is  he  sorry  not  to  be  there  now?" 

N — not  particular,"  said  the  turnkey. 

Nor  any  of  the  people?"  she  asked,  glancing-  at  the 
listless  crowd  within.  "Oh,  are  you  quite  sure  and  cer- 
tain. Bob?" 

At  this  point,  Bob  gave  in  and  changed  the  subject  to 
hardbake.  But  after  this  chat  the  turnkey  and  little  Amy 
would  g-o  out  on  his  free  Sunday  afternoons  to  some  meadows 
or  green  lanes,  and  she  would  pick  g-rass  and  flowers  to  bring- 
home,  while  he  smoked  his  pipe;  and  then  they  would  go  to 
some  tea-gardens  for  shrimps  and  tea  and  other  delicacies, 
and  would  come  back  hand  in  hand,  unless  she  was  very 
tired  and  had  fallen  asleep  on  his  shoulder. 

When  Amy  was  only  eight  years  old    her  mother  died, 
4 


<  < 

(< 
<< 


<  ( 


50 


LITTLE  DORRIT 


'THINKING  OF  THE  FIELDS,  AIN'T  YOU? 


LITTLE  DORRIT  51 

and  the  poor  father  was  more  helpless  and  broken-down 
than  ever,  and  as  Fanny  was  a  careless  child,  and  Edward 
idle,  the  little  one,  who  had  the  bravest  and  truest  heart,  was 
inspired  by  her  love  and  unselfishness  to  be  the  little  mother 
of  the  forlorn  family,  and  struggled  to  get  some  little  educa- 
tion for  herself  and  her  brother  and  sister. 

At  first,  such  a  baby  could  do  little  more  than  sit  with 
him,  deserting  her  livelier  place  by  the  high  fender,  and 
quietly  watching  him.  But  this  made  her  so  far  necessary 
to  him  that  he  became  accustomed  to  her,  and  began  to  be 
sensible  of  missing  her  when  she  was  not  there.  Through 
this  little  gate,  she  passed  out  of  her  childhood  into  the 
care-laden  world. 

What  her  pitiful  look  saw,  at  that  early  time,  in  her  father, 
in  her  sister,  in  her  brother,  in  the  jail;  how  much  or  how 
little  of  the  wretched  truth  it  pleased  God  to  make  visible  to 
her,  lies  hidden  with  many  mysteries.  It  is  enough  that  she 
was  inspired  to  be  something  which  was  not  what  the  rest 
were,  and  to  be  that  something,  different  and  laborious,  for 
for  the  sake  of  the  rest.  Inspired?  Yes.  Shall  we  speak 
of  the  inspiration  of  a  poet  or  a  priest,  and  not  of  the  heart 
impelled  by  love  and  self-devotion  to  the  lowliest  work  in 
the  lowliest  way  of  life? 

At  thirteen  she  could  read  and  keep  accounts — that  is, 
could  put  down  in  words  and  figures  how  much  the  bare 
necessaries  that  they  wanted  would  cost,  and  how  much  less 
xhey  had  to  buy  them  with.  She  had  been,  by  snatches  of  a 
few  weeks  at  a  time,  to  an  evening  school  outside,  and  got 
her  sister  and  brother  sent  to  day-school  by  desultory  starts, 
during  three  or  four  years.  There  was  no  instruction  for 
any  of  them  at  home ;  but  she  knew  well — no  one  better—* 
that  a  man  so  broken  as  to  be  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea, 
could  be  no  father  to  his  own  children. 


a 


ii , 


52  LITTLE  DORRIT 

To  these  scanty  means  of  improvement,  she  added 
another  of  her  own  contriving^.  Once  among-  the  crowd  of 
inmates  there  appeared  a  dancing-master.  Her  sister  had  a 
great  desire  to  learn  the  dancing-master's  art,  and  seemed 
to  have  a  taste  that  way.  At  thirteen  years  old,  the  Child 
of  the  Marshalsea  presented  herself  to  the  dancing-master, 
with  a  little  bag  in  her  hand,  and  offered  her  humble 
petition. 

If  you  please,  I  was  born  here,  sir.'* 
'Oh!     You  are  the   young   lady,  are  you?"  said  the 
dancing-master,  surveying  the  small  figure  and  uplifted  face. 

"Yes,  sir." 

**And  what  can  I  do  for  you?"   said  the  dancing-master. 

''Nothing  for  me,  sir,  thank  you,"  anxiously  undrawing 
the  strings  of  the  little  bag,  "but  if,  while  you  stay  here, 
you  could  be  so  kind  as  to  teach  my  sister  cheap " 

"My  child,  I'll  teach  her  for  nothing,"  said  the 
dancing-master,  shutting  up  the  bag.  He  was  as  good- 
natured  a  dancing-master  as  ever  danced  to  the  Insolvent 
Court,  and  he  kept  his  word.  The  sister  was  so  apt  a 
pupil,  and  the  dancing-master  had  such  abundant  leisure  to 
bestow  upon  her,  that  wonderful  progress  was  made. 
Indeed,  the  dancing-master  was  so  proud  of  it,  and  so  wish- 
ful to  display  it  before  he  left,  to  a  few  select  friends  among 
the  collegians,  that  at  six  o'clock  on  a  certain  fine  morning, 
a  minuet  de  la  cour  came  off  in  the  yard — the  college-rooms 
being  of  too  confined  proportions  for  the  purpose — in  which  so 
much  ground  was  covered,  and  the  steps  were  so  conscien- 
tiously executed,  that  the  dancing-master,  having  to  play  the 
kit  besides,  was  thoroughly  blown. 

The  success  of  this  beginning,  which  led  to  the  dancing- 
master's     continuing     his     instruction    after    his     release, 


(<- 


LITTLE  DORRIT  53 

emboldened  the  poor  child  to  try  ag-ain.  She  watched  and 
waited  months  for  a  seamstress.  In  the  fullness  of  time  a 
milliner  came  in,  and  to  her  she  repaired  on  her  own  behalf. 

"I  beg-  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  she  said,  looking  timidly 
round  the  door  of  the  milliner,  whom  she  found  in  tears  and 
in  bed,  ''but  I  was  born  here." 

I         Everybody  seemed    to    hear    of   her   as    soon    as  they 
arrived;  for  the  milliner  sat  up  in  bed,  drying  her  eyes,  and 
said,  just  as  the  dancing-master  had  said: 
Oh!      Voii  are  the  child,  are  you?" 
Yes,  ma'am." 

I  am  sorry  I  haven't  g"ot  anything  for  you,"  said  the 
milliner,  shaking  her  head. 

"It's  not  that,  ma'am.  If  you  please,  I  want  to  learn 
needlework." 

*'Why  should  you  do  that,"  returned  the  milliner,  "with 
me  before  you?  It  has  not  done  me  much  good." 

"Nothing — whatever  it  is — seems  to  have  done  anybody 
much  good  who  comes  here,"  she  returned  in  all  simplicity, 
"but  I  want  to  learn,  just  the  same." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  so  weak,  you  see,"  the  milliner 
objected. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  weak,  ma'am." 

"And  you  are  so  very,  very  little,  you  see,"  the  milliner 
objected. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  I  am  very  little  indeed,"  returned  the 
Child  of  the  Marshalsea ;  and  so  beg-an  to  sob  over  that 
unfortunate  defect  of  hers,  which  came  so  often  in  her  way. 

The  milliner — who  was  not  morose  or  hard-hearted,  only 
newly  insolvent — was  touched,  took  her  in  hand  with  g^ood- 
will,  found  her  the  most  patient  and  earnest  of  pupils,  and 
made  her  a  good  workwoman. 


54  LITTLE  DORRIT 

In  the  course  of  time,  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea 
gradually  developed  a  new  flower  of  character.  With  the 
same  hand  that  had  pocketed  a  collegian's  half-crown  half 
an  hour  ago,  he  would  wipe  away  the  tears  that  streamed 
over  his  cheeks  if  any  reference  were  made  to  his  daughters' 
earning  their  bread.  So,  over  and  above  her  other  daily 
cares,  the  Child  of  the  Marshalsea  had  always  upon  her  they 
care  of  preserving  the  genteel  fiction  that  they  were  all  idle 
beggars  together. 

The  sister  became  a  dancer.  There  was  a  ruined  uncle 
in  the  family  group — ruined  by  his  brother,  the  father  of  the 
Marshalsea,  and  knowing  no  more  how  than  his  miner  did^ 
but  accepting  the  fact  as  an  inevitable  certainty.  Naturally  a 
retired  and  simple  man,  he  had  shown  no  particular  sense  of 
being  ruined  at  the  time  when  that'  calamity  fell  upon  him, 
further  than  he  left  off  washing  himself  when  the  shock  was 
announced,  and  never  took  that  luxury  any  more.  He  had 
been  a  very  indifferent  musical  amateur  in  his  better  days ; 
and  when  he  fell  with  his  brother,  resorted  for  support  to 
playing  a  clarionet  as  dirty  as  himself  in  a  small  theatre 
orchestra.  It  was  the  theatre  in  which  his  niece  became  a 
dancer ;  he  had  been  a  fixture  there  a  long  time  when  she 
took  her  poor  station  in  it,  and  he  accepted  the  task  of 
serving  as  her  escort  and  guardian,  just  as  he  would  have 
accepted  an  illness,  a  legacy,  a  feast,  starvation — anything 
but  soap. 

To  enable  this  girl  to  earn  her  few  weekly  shillings,  it 
was  necessary  for  the  Child  of  the  Marshalsea  to  go  through 
an  elaborate  form  with  her  father. 

"Fanny  is  not  going  to  live  with  us,  just  now,  father. 
She  will  be  here  a  good  deal  in  the  day,  but  she  is  going  to 
live  outside  with  uncle.'* 


LITTLE  DORRIT  55 


II- 


You  surprise  me!     Why?" 

I  think  uncle  wants  a  companion,  father.     He  should 
be  attended  to  and  looked  after." 

*'A  companion?  He  passes  much  of  his  time  here.  And 
you  attend  and  look  after  him,  Amy,  a  great  deal  more 
than  ever  your  sister  will.  You  all  g^o  out  so  much ;  you 
all  go  out  so  much  !" 

This  was  to  keep  up  the  ceremony  and  pretense  of  his 
having-  no  idea  that  Amy  herself  went  out  by  the  day 
to  work. 

"But  we  are  always  very  glad  to  come  home,  father; 
now,  are  we  not?  And  as  to  Fanny,  perhaps  besides  keeping 
uncle  company  and  taking  care  of  him,  it  may  be  as  well  for 
her  not  quite  to  live  here  always.  She  was  not  born  here 
as  I  was  you  know,  father. 

"Well,  Amy,  well.  I  don't  quite  follow  you,  but  it's 
natural,  I  suppose,  that  Fanny  should  prefer  to  be  outside, 
and  even  that  you  often  should,  too.  So  you  and  Fanny 
and  your  uncle,  my  dear,  shall  have  your  own  way.  Good, 
good.     I'll  not  meddle;  don't  mind  me." 

To  get  her  brother  out  of  prison — out  of  the  succession 
to  Mrs.  Bangham  in  executing  commissions,  and  out  of  the 
slang  interchange  with  very  doubtful  companions,  conse- 
quent upon  both,  was  her  hardest  task.  At  eighteen  he 
would  have  dragged  on  from  hand  to  mouth,  from  hour  to 
hour,  from  penny  to  penny,  until  eighty.  Nobody  got  into 
the  prison  from  whom  he  derived  anything  useful  or  good, 
and  she  could  find  no  patron  for  him  but  her  old  friend  and 
godfather. 

"  Dear  Bob,"  said  she,  "what  is  to  become  of  poorTip?" 
His  name  was  Edward,  and  Ted  had  been  transformed  into 
Tip,  within  the  walls. 


56  LITTLE  DORRIT 

The  turnkey  had  strong-  private  opinions  as  to  what 
would  become  of  poor  Tip,  and  had  even  gone  so  far  with 
the  view  of  averting  their  fulfiHment  as  to  sound  Tip  in  ref- 
erence to  the  expediency  of  running  away  and  going  to  serve 
his  country.  But  Tip  had  thanked  him,  and  said  he  didn't 
seem  to  care  for  his  country. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  turnkey,  "something  ought 
to  be  done  with  him.    Suppose  I  try  and  g-ethim  into  the  law?" 

"  That  would  be  so  good  of  you.  Bob !  " 

The  turnkey  had  now  two  points  to  put  to  the  profes- 
sional gentlemen  as  they  passed  in  and  out.  He  put  this 
second  one  so  perseveringly  that  a  stool  and  twelve  shillings 
a  week  were  at  last  found  for  Tip  in  the  office  of  an  attorney 
in  a  great  National  Palladium  called  the  Palace  Court ;  at 
that  time  one  of  a  considerable  list  of  everlasting  bulwarks 
to  the  dignity  and  safety  of  Albion,  whose  places  know  them 
no  more. 

Tip  languished  in  Clifford's  Inn  for  six  months,  and  at 
the  expiration  of  that  term  sauntered  back  one  evening  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  incidentally  observed  to  his 
sister  that  he  was  not  going  back  again. 

"Not  going  back  again?"  said  the  poor  little  anxious 
Child  of  the  Marshalsea,  always  calculating  and  planning 
for  Tip,  in  the  front  rank  of  her  charges. 

"  I  am  so  tired  of  it,"  said  Tip,  "that  I  have  cut  it." 

Tip  tired  of  everything.  With  intervals  of  Marshalsea 
lounging,  and  Mrs.  Bangham  succession,  his  small  second 
mother,  aided  by  her  trusty  friend,  got  him  into  a  warehouse, 
into  a  market  garden,  into  the  hop  trade,  into  the  law  again, 
into  an  auctioneer's,  into  a  brewery,  into  a  stockbroker's,  into 
the  law  again,  into  a  coach  office,  into  a  wagon  office,  into 
the  law  again,  into  a  general   dealer's,  into  a  distillery,  into 


^^■^ 


'       ~Xi 


LITTLE  DORRIT  AND  MAGGIE 


LITTLE  DORRIT  57 

the  law  ag-ain,  into  a  wool  house,  into  a  dry  g-oods  house, 
into  the  Billingsgate  trade,  into  the  foreign  fruit  trade,  and 
into  the  docks.  But  whatever  Tip  went  into  he  came  out  of 
tired,  announcing  that  he  had  cut  it.  Wherever  he  went, 
this  foredoomed  Tip  appeared  to  take  the  prison  walls  with 
him,  and  to  set  them  up  in  such  trade  or  calling;  and  to 
prowl  about  within  their  narrow  limits  in  the  old  slipshod, 
purposeless,  down-at-heel  way;  until  the  real,  immovable 
Marshalsea  walls  asserted  their  fascination  over  him  and 
brought  him  back. 

Nevertheless,  the  brave  little  creature  did  so  fix  her 
heart  on  her  brother's  rescue  that,  while  he  was  ringing  out 
these  doleful  changes,  she  pinched  and  scraped  enough  to- 
gether to  ship  him  for  Canada.  When  he  was  tired  of 
nothing  to  do,  and  disposed  in  its  turn  to  cut  even  that,  he 
graciously  consented  to  go  to  Canada.  And  there  was  grief 
in  her  bosom  over  parting  with  him,  and  joy  in  the  hope  of 
being  put  in  a  straight  course  at  last. 

'*  God  bless  you,  dear  Tip.  Don't  be  too  proud  to  come 
and  see  us,  when  you  have  made  your  fortune." 

"All  right!  "  said  Tip,  and  went. 

But  not  all  the  way  to  Canada;  in  fact,  not  further  than 
Liverpool.  After  making  the  voyage  to  that  port  from 
London,  he  found  himself  so  strongly  impelled  to  cut  the 
vessel  that  he  resolved  to  walk  back  again.  Carrying  out 
which  intention,  he  presented  himself  before  her  at  the 
expiration  of  a  month,  in  rags,  without  shoes,  and  much 
more  tired  than  ever. 

At  length,  after  another  interval  of  successorship  to 
Mrs.  Bangham,  he  found  a  pursuit  for  himself,  and  an- 
nounced it. 

Amy,  I  have  got  a  situation." 


<( 


58 


LITTLE  DORRIT 


<i 


Have  you,  really  and  truly,  Tip?'* 
AH  right.     I  shall  do  now.     You  needn't  look  anxious 
about  me  any  more,  old  girl." 
'What  is  it,  Tip?" 
'Why,  you  know  Slingo  by  sight?" 
'Not  the  man  they  call  the  dealer? 


(( 


((- 


(<^ 


<( 


TIP  AND  LITTLE  DORRIT. 
Don't  say  that  yon  are  a  prisoner,    Tip  I " 


i(-\ 


ti- 


"That's  the  chap.     He'll  be  out  on  Monday,  and  he's 
going  to  give  me  a  berth." 

'What  is  he  a  dealer  in,  Tip?" 
'Horses.     All  right!     I  shall  do  now.  Amy." 
She  lost  sight  of  him  for  months  afterwards,  and  only 
heard  from  him  once.  A  whisper  passed  among  the  elder 
collegians  that  he  had  been  seen  at  a  mock  auction  in  Moor- 


LITTLE  DORRIT  59 

fields,  pretending-  to  buy  plated  articles  for  massive  silver, 
and  paying-  for  them  with  the  greatest  liberality  in  bank-notes; 
but  it  never  reached  her  ear.  One  evening  she  was  alone  at 
work — standing  up  at  the  window,  to  save  the  twilight  lin- 
gering above  the  wall — when  he  opened  the  door  and  walked 
in. 

She  kissed  him  and  welcomed  him ;  but  was  afraid  to 
ask  him  any  question.  He  saw  how  anxious  and  timid  she 
was,  and  appeared  sorry. 

"I  am  afraid.  Amy,  you'll  be  vexed  this  time.  Upon  my 
life  I  am!" 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,  Tip.  Have  you 
come  back?" 

'Why— yes." 

Not  expecting  this  time  that  what  you  had  found  would 
answer  very  well,  I  am  less  surprised  and  sorry  than  I  might 
have  been,  Tip." 

'Ah!   But  that's  not  the  worst  of  it." 
Not  the  worst  of  it?" 

Don't  look  so  startled.  No,  Amy,  not  the  worst  of  it. 
I  have  come  back,  you  see ;  but — c/onf  look  so  startled — I 
have  come  back  in  what  I  may  call  a  new  way.  I  am  off  the 
volunteer  list  altogether.  I  am  in  now  as  one  of  the  regulars." 

"Oh!  Don't  say  that  you  are  a  prisoner.  Tip!  Don't, 
don't" 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  say  it,"  he  returned  in  a  reluctant 
tone;  "but  if  you  can't  understand  me  without  my  saying  it, 
what  am  I  to  do?  I  am  in  for  forty  pound  odd." 

For  the  first  time  in  all  those  years,  she  sunk  under  her 
cares.  She  cried,  with  her  clasped  hands  lifted  above  her 
head,  that  it  would  kill  their  father  if  he  ever  knew  it; 
and  fell  down  at  Tip's  graceless  feet. 


6o  LITTLE  DORRIT 

It  was  easier  for  Tip  to  bring-  her  to  her  senses  than  for 
her  to  bring /^^V;/ to  understand  that  the  Father  of  the  Marshal- 
sea  would  be  beside  himself  if  he  knew  the  truth.  The  thing 
was  incomprehensible  to  Tip  and  altogether  a  fanciful  notion. 
He  yielded  to  it  in  that  light  only  when  he  submitted  to  her 
entreaties,  backed  by  those  of  his  uncle  and  sister.  There 
was  no  want  of  precedent  for  his  return ;  it  was  accounted  for 
to  the  father  in  the  usual  way,  and  the  collegians,  with  a  better 
comprehension  of  the  pious  fraud  than  Tip,  supported  it 
loyally. 

This  was  the  life,  and  this  the  history,  of  the  child  of  the 
Marshalsea,  at  twenty-two.  With  a  still  survivingf  attachment 
to  the  one  miserable  yard  and  block  of  houses  as  her  birth- 
place and  home,  she  passed  to  and  fro  in  it  shrinkingly  now, 
with  a  womanly  consciousness  that  she  was  pointed  out  to 
everyone.  Since  she  had  beg-un  to  work  beyond  the  walls,  she 
had  found  it  necessary  to  conceal  where  she  lived,  and  to 
come  and  go  as  secretly  as  she  could  between  the  free  city  and 
the  iron  g-ates,  outside  of  which  she  had  never  slept  in  her 
life.  Her  original  timidity  had  g^rown  with  this  concealment, 
and  her  light  step  and  her  little  figure  shunned  the  thronged 
streets  while  they  passed  along  them. 

Worldly  wise  in  hard  and  poor  necessities,  she  was 
innocent  in  all  things  else.  Innocent  in  the  mist  through 
which  she  saw  her  father  and  the  prison  and  the  turbid 
living  river  that  flowed  through  it  and  flowed  on. 

This  was  the  life,  and  this  the  history,  of  little  Dorrit, 
until  the  son  of  a  lady,  Mrs.  Clennem,  to  whose  house  Amy 
went  to  do  needlework,  became  interested  in  the  pale, 
patient  little  creature,  and  learning-  her  history  resolved  to 
do  his  best  to  try  to  g-et  her  father  released,  and  to  help 
them  all- 


LITTLE  DORRIT 


6i 


One  day  when  he  was  walking-  home  with  Amy  to  try 
to  find  out  the  names  of  some  of  the  people  her  father  owed 
money  to,  a  voice  was  heard  calling-,  "Little  mother,  little 
mother,"  and  a  strange 


fig-ure  came  bouncingf 
up  to  them  and  fell 
down,  scattering-  her 
basketful  of  potatoes 
on  the  g-round.  "Oh 
Mag-g-ie,"  said  Amy, 
"what  a  clumsy  child 
you  are!" 

She  was  about 
eig-ht  and  twenty,  with 
large  bones,  larg-e  fea- 
tures, large  hands  and 
feet,  large  eyes,  and 
no  hair.  Amy  told 
Mr.  Clennem  that 
Maggie  was  the  grand- 
daughter of  her  old 
nurse,  who  had  been 
dead  a  long  time,  and 
that  her  grandmother 
had  been  very  unkind 
to  her  and  beat  her. 

"When  Maggie  was  ten  years  old  she  had  a  fever,  and 
she  has  never  grown  older  since." 

"Ten  years  old,"  said  Maggie.  "But  what  a  nice 
hospital!  So  comfortable,  wasn't  it?  Such  a 'e'v'nly  place! 
Such  beds  there  is  there !  Such  lemonades !  Such  oranges  I 
Such  delicious  broth  and  wine!  Such  chicking!  Oh,  ain't 
it  a  delightful  place  to  stop  at  J  * 


MAGGIE. 
'Oh,  ain't  it  a  delightful  place  to  stop  at  I " 


62  LITTLE  DORRIT 

"Then  when  she  came  out,  her  gfrandmother  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  her,  and  was  very  unkind.  But  after 
some  time  Maggie  tried  to  improve,  and  was  very  attentive 
and  industrious,  and  now  she  can  earn  her  own  living 
entirely,  sir! " 

Amy  did  not  say  who  had  taken  pains  to  teach  and  en- 
courage the  poor,  half-witted  creature,  but  Mr.  Clennem 
guessed  from  the  name  little  mother  and  the  fondness  of  the 
poor  creature  for  Amy. 

One  cold,  wet  evening,  Amy  and  Maggie  went  to  Mr. 
Clennem' s  house  to  thank  him  for  having  freed  Edward  from 
the  prison,  and  on  coming  out  found  it  was  too  late  to  get  home 
as  the  gate  was  locked.  They  tried  to  get  in  at  Maggie's 
lodgings,  but,  though  they  knocked  twice,  the  people  were 
asleep.  As  Amy  did  not  wish  to  disturb  them,  they  wan- 
dered about  all  night,  sometimes  sitting  at  the  gate  of  the 
prison,   Maggie  shivering  and  whimpering. 

**It  will   soon    be   over,    dear,"    said    patient  Amy. 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well  for  you,  mother,"  said  Maggie, 
"but    I'm    a    poor   thing,    only   ten   years   old." 

Thanks  to  Mr.  Clennem,  a  great  change  took  place  in 
the  fortunes  of  the  family,  and  not  long  after  this  wretched 
night  it  was  discovered  that  Mr.  Dorrit  was  owner  of  a  large 
property,    and   they   became  very  rich. 

But  little  Dorrit  never  forgot,  as,  sad  to  say,  the  rest  of 
the  family  did,  the  friends  who  had  been  kind  to  them  in 
their  poverty;  and  when  in  his  turn,  Mr.  Clennem  became  a 
prisoner  in  the  Marshalsea,  Little  Dorrit  came  to  comfort 
and  console  him,  and  after  many  changes  of  fortune  she 
became  his  wife,  and  they  lived  happy  ever  after. 


Trotty  Veck  and  His  Daughter  Meg. 


TROTTY"  seems  a  strange  name  for  an  old  man,  but 
it  was  gfiven  to  Toby  Veck  because  of  his  always 
going  at  a  trot  to  do  his  errands ;  for  he  was  a  ticket 
porter,  and  his  office  was  to  take  letters  and  messages  for 
people  who  were  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  send  them  by  the 
post,  which  in  those  days  was  neither  so  cheap  nor  so  quick 
as  it  is  now.  He  did  not  earn  very  much,  and  had  to  be  out 
in  all  weathers  and  all  day  long.  But  Toby  was  of  a  cheer- 
ful disposition,  and  looked  on  the  bright  side  of  everything, 

and  was  grateful  for  any  small  mercies  that  came  in  his  way; 

63 


64  TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG 

and  so  was  happier  than  many  people  who  never  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  hungry  or  in  want  of  comforts.  His  greatest 
joy  was  his  dear,  bright,  pretty  daughter  Meg,  who  loved 
him  dearly. 

One  cold  day,  near  the  end  of  the  year,  Toby  had  been 
waiting  a  long  time  for  a  job,  trotting  up  and  down  in  his 
usual  place  before  the  church,  and  trying  hard  to  keep  him- 
self warm,  when  the  bells  chimed  twelve  o'clock,  which  made 
Toby  think  of  dinner. 

"There's  nothing,"  he  remarked,  carefully  feeling  his 
nose  to  make  sure  it  was  still  there,  "more  regular  in  coming 
round  than  dinner-time,  and  nothing  less  regular  in  coming 
round  than  dinner.  That's  the  great  difference  between  'em." 
He  went  on  talking  to  himself,  trotting  up  and  down,  and 
never  noticing  who  was  coming  near  to  him. 

"Why,  father,  father,"  said  a  pleasant  voice,  and  Toby 
turned  to  find  his  daughter's  sweet,  bright  eyes  close  to  his. 

"Why  pet,"  said  he,  kissing  her  and  squeezing  her 
blooming  face  between  his  hands,  "what's  to-do?  I  didn't 
expect  you  to-day,  Meg." 

"Neither  did  I  expect  to  come,  father,"  said  Meg, 
nodding  and  smiling.  "But  here  I  am!  And  not  alone, 
not  alone!" 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say,"  observed  Trotty,  look- 
ing curiously  at  the  covered  basket  she  carried,  "that  you — " 

"Smell  it,  father  dear,"  said  Meg.     "Only  smell  it!" 

Trotty  was  going  to  lift  up  the  cover  at  once,  in  a  great 
hurry,  when  she  gaily  interposed  her  hand. 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Meg,  with  the  glee  of  a  child. 
"Lengthen  it  out  a  little.  Let  me  just  lift  up  the  corner; 
just  a  lit-tle,  ti-ny  cor-ner,  you  know,"  said  Meg,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word  with  the  utmost  gentleness,  and  speaking 


THOTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG 


65 


very  softly,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  being"  overheard  by 
something^  inside  the  basket.     "There,  now;  what's  that?" 

Toby  took  the  shortest  possible  sniff  at  the  edge  of  the 
basket,  and  cried  out  in  rapture: 

"Why,  it's  hot,"  he  said. 


"  THEY  BROKE  IN  LIKE  A  GRACE,  MY  DEAR." 

But  to  Meg^'s  great  delight  he  could  not  guess  what  it 
was  that  smelt  so  good. 

"Polonies?  Trotters?  Liver?  Pettitoes?  Sausages?"  he 
tried  one  after  the  other.  At  last  he  exclaimed  in  triumph. 
"Why,  what  am  I  a' thinking  of?     It's  tripe!" 

And  it  was. 

"And  so,"  said  Meg,  "  I'll  lay  the  cloth  at  once,  father; 

for  I  have  brought  the  tripe  in  a  basin,  and  tied  the  basin 

5 


66  TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG 

up  in  a  pocket-handkerchief;  and  if  I  like  to  be  proud  for 
once,  and  spread  that  for  a  cloth,  and  call  it  a  cloth,  there's 
nobody  to  prevent  me,  is  there,  father?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  my  dear,"  said  Toby;  "but 
they're  always  a-bringing  up  some  new  law  or  other." 

''And  according  to  what  I  was  reading  you  in  the  paper, 
the  other  day,  father,  what  the  judge  said,  you  know,  we 
poor   people  are  supposed  to  know    them    all.       Ha,   ha ! 
What  a  mistake!     My  goodness  me,  how  clever  they  think 
us!" 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  cried  Trotty;  "and  they'd  be  very 
fond  of  any  one  of  us  that  did  know  'em  all.  He'd  grow  fat 
upon  the  work  he'd  get,  that  man,  and  be  popular  with  the 
gentlefolks  in  his  neighborhood.     Very  much  so!" 

"  He'd  eat  his  dinner  with  an  appetite,  whoever  he  was, 
if  it  smelt  like  this,"  said  Meg,  cheerfully.  "Make  haste, 
for  there's  a  hot  potato  besides,  and  half  a  pint  of  fresh- 
drawn  beer  in  a  bottle.  Where  will  you  dine,  father — on 
the  post  or  on  the  steps  ?  Dear,  dear,  how  grand  we  are  I 
Two  places  to  choose  from!" 

"The  steps  to-day,  my  pet,"  said  Trotty.  "Steps  in 
dry  weather,  post  in  wet.  There's  greater  conveniency  in 
the  steps  at  all  times,  because  of  the  sitting  down,  but 
they're  rheumatic  in  the  damp." 

"Then,  here,"  said  Meg,  clapping  her  hands  after  4 
moment's  bustle;  "here  it  is  all  ready!  And  beautiful  it 
looks!     Come,  father.     Come!" 

And  just  as  Toby  was  about  to  sit  down  to  his  dinner 
on  the  doorsteps  of  a  big  house  close  by,  the  chimes  rang 
out  again,  and  Toby  took  off  his  hat  and  said,   "Amen." 

"Amen  to  the  bells,  father?" 

"They  broke  in  like  a  grace,  my  dear,"  said  Trotty; 


(< 
(( 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG  67 

"they'd  say  a  good  one  if  they  could,   Ym  sure.     Many's 
the  kind  thing  they  say  to  me.     How  often  have  I  heard 
them  bells  say,  *  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  keep  a  good  heart, 
Toby!'     A  million  times?     More!" 
Well,  I  never!"  cried  Meg. 

When  things  is  very  bad,  then  it*s  *Toby  Veck,  Toby 
Veck,  job  coming  soon,  Toby!' " 

"And  it  comes — at  last,  father,"  said  Meg,  with  a  touch 
of  sadness  in  her  pleasant  voice. 

"Always,"  answered  Toby.     "  Never  fails." 

While  this  discourse  was  holding,  Trotty  made  no 
pause  in  his  attack  upon  the  savory  meat  before  him,  but 
cut  and  ate,  and  cut  and  drank,  and  cut  and  chewed,  and 
dodged  about  from  tripe  to  hot  potato,  and  from  hot  potato 
back  again  to  tripe,  with  an  unctuous  and  unflagging  relish. 
But  happening  now  to  look  all  round  the  street — in  case  any- 
body should  be  beckoning  from  any  door  or  window  for  a 
porter — his  eyes  in  coming  back  again  encountered  Meg 
sitting  opposite  him  with  her  arms  folded,  and  only  busy 
in  watching  his  progress  with  a  smile  of  happiness. 

"Why,  Lord  forgive  me!'*   said  Trotty,  dropping  his 
knife  and  fork.     "My  dove!   Meg,  why  didn*t  you  tell  me 
what  a  beast  I  was?" 
Father?" 

Sitting  here,"  said  Trotty,  in  penitent  explanation, 
cramming  and  stuffing  and  gorging  myself,  and  you 
before  me  there,  never  so  much  as  breaking  your  precious 
fast,  nor  wanting  to,  when " 

"But  I  have  broken  it,  father,"  interposed  his  daughter, 
laughing,  "all  to  bits.     I  have  had  my  dinner." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Trotty.  "Two  dinners  in  one  dayl 
It  ain't  possible!  You  might  as  well  tell  me  that  two  New 


68  TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG 

Year's  days  will   come  together,  or  that  I  have  had  a  gold 
head  all  my  life,  and  never  changed  it." 

''I  have  had  my  dinner,  father,  for  all  that,"  said  Meg, 
coming  nearer  to  him.      ''And  if  you  will  go  on  with  yours, 
I'll  tell  you  how  and  where,  and  how  your  dinner  came  to  be 
{brought,  and — and  something  else  besides." 

Toby  still  appeared  incredulous ;  but  she  looked  into  his 
face  with  her  clear  eyes,  and,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  motioned  him  to  go  on  while  the  meat  was  hot. 
So  Trotty  took  up  his  knife  and  fork  again  and  went  to  work, 
but  much  more  slowly  than  before,  and  shaking  his  head,  as 
if  he  were  not  at  all  pleased  with  himself. 

"I  had  my  dinner,  father,"  said  Meg,  after  a  little 
hesitation,  ''with — with  Richard.  His  dinner-time  was 
early;  and  as  he  brought  his  dinner  with  him  when  he  came 
to  see  me,  we — we  had  it  together,  father." 

Trotty  took  a  little  beer  and  smacked  his  lips.  Then 
he  said  "Oh!"  because  she  waited. 

*  'And  Richard  says,  father—' '  Meg  resumed,  then  stopped. 

"What  does  Richard  say,  Meg?"  asked  Toby. 
■Richard  says,  father — "  Another  stoppage. 
'Richard's  a  long  time  saying  it,"  said  Toby- 

"He  says,  then,  father,"  Meg  continued,  lifting  up  her 
eyes  at  last,  and  speaking  in  a  tremble,  but  quite  plainly, 
) "another  year  is  nearly  gone,  and  where  is  the  use  of  waiting 
'  on  from  year  to  year,  when  it  is  so  unlikely  we  shall  ever  be 
better  off  than  we  are  now?  He  says  we  are  poor  now, 
father,  and  we  shall  be  poor  then ;  but  we  are  young  now, 
and  years  will  make  us  old  before  we  know  it.  He  says  that 
if  we  wait,  people  in  our  condition,  until  we  see  our  way 
quite  clearly,  the  way  will  be  a  narrow  one  indeed — the  com- 
mon way — the  grave,  father." 


<  ( 


-1 


-* 


.--J 


TROTTY  VECK'S  DINNER 


TE.OTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG  69 

A  bolder  man  than  Trotty  Veck  must  needs  have  drawn 
upon  his  boldness  largely  to  deny  it.     Trotty  held  his  peace. 

"And  how  hard,  father,  to  grow  old  and  die,  and  think 
we  might  have  cheered  and  helped  each  other!  How  hard  in 
all  our  lives  to  love  each  other,  and  to  grieve,  apart,  to  see 
each  other  working,  changing,  growing  old  and  gray.  Even 
if  I  got  the  better  of  it,  and  forgot  him  (which  I  never  could), 
oh,  father,  dear,  how  hard  to  have  a  heart  so  full  as  mine  is 
now,  and  live  to  have  it  slowly  drained  out  every  drop,  with- 
out the  recollection  of  one  happy  moment  of  a  woman's  life 
to  stay  behind  and  comfort  me  and  make  me  better!" 

Trotty  sat  quite  still.  Meg  dried  her  eyes,  and  said  more 
gaily — that  is  to  say,  with  here  a  laugh  and  there  a  sob,  and 
here  a  laugh  and  sob  together : 

'*So  Richard  says,  father,  as  his  work  was  yesterday 
made  certain  for  some  time  to  come,  and  as  I  love  him  and 
have  loved  him  full  three  years — ah,  longer  than  that,  if  he 
knew  it! — will  I  marry  him  on  New  Year's  Day.^" 

Just  then  Richard  himself  came  up  to  persuade  Toby 
to  agree  to  their  plan  and,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  a 
footman  came  out  of  the  house  and  ordered  them  all  off  the 
steps,  and  some  gentleman  came  out  who  called  up  Trotty, 
and  asked  a  great  many  questions,  and  found  a  good  deal 
of  fault,  telling  Richard  he  was  very  foolish  to  want  to  get 
married,  which  made  Toby  feel  very  unhappy  and  Richard 
very  angry.  So  the  lovers  went  off  together,  sadly ;  Richard 
looking  gloomy  and  downcast,  and  Meg  in  tears.  Toby, 
who  had  a  letter  given  him  to  carry,  and  a  sixpence,  trotted 
off  in  rather  low  spirits  to  a  very  grand  house,  where  he  was 
told  to  take  the  letter  in  to  the  gentleman.  While  waiting 
he  heard  the  letter  read.  It  was  from  Alderman  Cute,  to  tell 
Sir  Joseph  Bowley  that  one  of  his  tenants  named  Will  Fern, 


70  TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG 

who  had  come  to  London  to  try  to  get  work,  had  been 
broug-ht  before  him  charged  with  sleeping  in  a  shed,  and 
asking  if  Sir  Joseph  wished  him  to  be  dealt  leniently 
with  or  otherwise.  To  Toby's  great  disappointment,  for  Sir 
Joseph  had  talked  a  great  deal  about  being  a  friend  to  the 
poor,  the  answer  was  given  that  Will  Fern  might  be  sent  to 
prison  as  a  vagabond,  and  made  an  example  of,  though  his 
only  fault  was  poverty.  On  his  way  home,  Toby,  thinking 
sadly,  with  his  hat  pulled  down  low  on  his  head,  ran  against 
a  man  dressed  as  a  countryman,  carrying  a  fair-haired  little 
girl.  Toby  inquired  anxiously  if  he  had  hurt  either  of  them. 
The  man  answered  no,  and  seeing  Toby  had  a  kind  face,  he 
asked  him  the  way  to  Alderman  Cute's  house. 

''It's  impossible,"  cried  Toby,  "that  your  name  is  Will 
Fern?" 

"That's  my  name,"  said  the  man. 

Thereupon  Toby  told  him  what  he  had  just  heard,  and 
said,  "Don't  go  there." 

Poor  Will  told  him  how  he  could  not  make  a  living  in 
the  country,  and  had  come  to  London  with  his  orphan  niece  to 
try  to  find  a  friend  of  her  mother's  and  to  endeavor  to  get 
some  work,  and,  wishing  Toby  a  happy  New  Year,  was  about 
to  trudge  wearily  off  again,  when  Trotty  caught  his  hand 
saying : 

"Stay!  The  New  Year  never  can  be  happy  to  me  if  I  see 
the  child  and  you  go  wandering  away  without  a  shelter  for 
your  heads.  Come  home  with  me.  Lm  a  poor  man,  living  in 
a  poor  place ;  but  I  can  give  you  lodging  for  one  night,  and 
never  miss  it.  Come  home  with  me!  Here!  Fll  take  her!" 
cried  Trotty,  liftng  up  the  child.  "A  pretty  one!  Fd  carry 
twenty  times  her  weight  and  never  know  Fd  got  it.  Tell  me 
if  I  go  too  quick  for  you.    Fm  very  fast.   I  always  was!" 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG  71 

Trotty  said  this  taking  about  six  of  his  trotting  paces  to  one 
stride  of  his  fatigued  companion,  and  with  his  thin  legs  quiv- 
ering again  beneath  the  load  he  bore. 

"Why,  she's  as  light,"  said  Trotty,  trotting  in  his  speech 
as  well  as  in  his  gait — for  he  couldn't  bear  to  be  thanked,  and 
dreaded  a  moment's  pause — "as  light  as  a  feather.  Lighter 
than  a  peacock's  feather — a  great  deal  lighter.  Here  we  are 
and  here  we  go ! "  And,  rushing  in,  he  set  the  child  down  before 
his  daughter.  The  little  girl  gave  one  look  at  Meg's  sweet 
face  and  ran  into  her  arms  at  once,  while  Trotty  ran  around 
the  room  saying,  "Here  we  are  and  here  we  go!  Here,  Uncle 
Will,  come  to  the  fire.  Meg,  my  precious  darling,  where' s  the 
kettle?  Here  it  is  and  here  it  goes,  and  it'll  bile  in  no  time!" 

"Why,  father!  "  said  Meg,  as  she  knelt  before  the  child 
and  pulled  off  her  wet  shoes,  "you're  crazy  to-night,  I  think. 
I  don't  know  what  the  bells  would  say  to  that.  Poor  little 
feet,  how  cold  they  are!  " 

"Oh,  they're  warmer  now!"  exclaimed  the  child. 
"They're  quite  warm  now!" 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Meg.   "We  haven't  rubbed  'em  half 
enough.    We're  so  busy.     And  when  they're  done  we'll  brush- 
out  the  damp  hair;   and  when  that's  done  we'll  bring  some 
color  to  the  poor,  pale  face  with  fresh  water;  and  when  that's 
done  we'll  be  so  gay  and  happy!  " 

The  child,  sobbing,  clasped  her  round  the  neck,  saying, 
"O  Meg,  O  dear  Meg!" 

"Good  gracious  me!"  said  Meg  presently,  "father's 
crazy.  He's  put  the  dear  child's  bonnet  on  the  kettle,  and 
hung  the  lid  behind  the  door!  " 

Trotty  hastily  repaired  this  mistake,  and  went  off  to  find 
some  tea  and  a  rasher  of  bacon  he  fancied  "he  had  seen  lying 
somewhere  on  the  stairs." 


72  TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG 

He  soon  came  back  and  made  the  tea,  and  before  longf 
they  were  all  enjoying-  a  meal.  Trotty  and  Meg  only  took  a 
morsel  for  form's  sake,  but  their  delight  was  in  seeing-  their 
visitors  eat,  and  very  happy  they  were — though  Trotty  had 
noticed  that  Meg-  was  sitting-  by  the  fire  in  tears  when  they 
had  come  in,  and  he  feared  her  marriage  had  been  broken 

off. 

After  tea  Meg  took  Lilian  to  bed,  and  Toby    showed 

Will  Fern  where  he  was  to  sleep.  As  he  came  back  past 
Meg's  door  he  heard  the  child  saying-  her  prayers,  remember- 
ing Meg's  name  and  asking  for  his.  Then  he  went  to  sit  by 
the  fire  and  read  his  paper,  and  fell  asleep  to  have  a  won- 
derful dream,  so  terrible  and  sad  that  it  was  a  great  relief 
when  he  woke. 

"And  whatever  you  do,  father,"  said  Meg,  "don't  eat 
tripe  again  without  asking  some  doctor  whether  it's  likely  to 
agree  with  you;  for  how  you  have  been  going  on!  Good 
gracious!" 

She  was  working  with  her  needle  at  a  little  table  by  the 
fire,  dressing  her  simple  gown  with  ribbons  for  her  wedding — 
so  quietly  happy,  so  blooming  and  youthful,  so  full  of  beauti- 
ful promise,  that  he  uttered  a  great  cry  as  if  it  were  an  angel 
in  his  house,  then  flew  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 

But  he  caught  his  feet  in  the  newspaper,  which  had 
fallen  on  the  hearth,  and  somebody  came  rushing  in  between 

them. 

"  No!  "  cried  the  voice  of  this  same  somebody.  A  g-en- 
erous  and  jolly  voice  it  was !  "Not  even  you;  not  even 
you.  The  first  kiss  of  Meg  in  the  New  Year  is  mine — mine! 
I  have  been  waiting  outside  the  house  this  hour  to  hear  the 
bells  and  claim  it.  Meg,  my  precious  prize,  a  happy  year! 
A  life  of  happy  years,  mv  darling:  wifel" 


TB.OTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG  73 

And  Richard  smothered  her  with  kisses. 

You  never  in  all  your  life  saw  anything-  like  Trotty  after 
this  ;  I  don't  care  where  you  have  lived  or  what  you  have 
seen ;  you  never  in  your  life  saw  anything  at  all  approaching- 
him  1  He  kept  running  up  to  Meg,  and  squeezing  her  fresh 
face  between  his  hands  and  kissing  it,  going  from  her  back- 
wards not  to  lose  sight  of  it,  and  running  up  again  like  a 
figure  in  a  magic  lantern ;  and  whatever  he  did,  he  was  con- 
stantly sitting  himself  down  in  his  chair,  and  never  stopping 
in  it  for  one  single  moment,  being — that's  the  truth — beside 
himself  with  joy. 

''And  to-morrow's  your  wedding-day,  my  pet!"  cried 
Trotty.     "Your  real,  happy  wedding-day !  " 

"To-day!"  cried  Richard,  shaking  hands  with  him. 
"To-day.  The  chimes  are  ringing  in  the  New  Year.  Hear 
them!" 

They  were  ringing.  Bless  their  sturdy  hearts,  they  were 
ringing.  Great  bells  as  they  were — melodious,  deep- 
mouthed,  noble  bells,  cast  in  no  common  metal,  made  by  no 
common  founder — when  had  they  ever  chimed  like  that 
before? 

Trotty  was  backing  off  to  that  extraordinary  chair  again, 
when  the  child,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the  noise,  came^ 
running  in,  half-dressed. 

"Why,  here  she  is!"  cried  Trotty,  catching  her  up.' 
"Here's  little  Lilian!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Here  we  are  and  here 
we  go !  Oh,  here  we  are  and  here  we  go  again !  And  here 
we  are  and  here  we  go !     And  Uncle  Will,  too!  " 

Before  Will  Fern  could  make  the  least  reply,  a  band  of 
music  burst  into  the  room,  attended  by  a  flock  of  neighbors, 
screaming,  "A  Happy  New  Year,  Meg!"  "A  happy  wed- 
ding!"  "  Many  of  'em !  "  and  other  fragmentary  good-wishes 


74  TROTTY  VECK  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG 

of  that  sort.  The  Drum  (who  was  a  private  friend  of 
Trotty's)  then  stepped  forward  and  said: 

''Trotty  Veck,  my  boy,  it's  g-ot  about  that  your  daughter 
is  going  to  be  married  to-morrow.  There  ain't  a  soul  that 
knows  you  that  don't  wish  you  well,  or  that  knows  her  and 
don't  wish  her  well.  Or  that  knows  you  both  and  don't 
wish  you  both  all  the  happiness  the  New  Year  can  bring. 
And  here  we  are  to  play  it  in  and  dance  it  in  accordingly." 

Then  Mrs.  Chickenstalker  came  in  (a  good-humored, 
comely  woman  who,  to  the  delight  of  all,  turned  out  to  be 
the  friend  of  Lilian's  mother,  for  whom  Will  Fern  had  come 
to  look),  with  a  stone  pitcher  full  of  "flip,"  to  wish  Meg 
joy,  and  then  the  music  struck  up,  and  Trotty,  making  Meg 
and  Richard  second  couple,  led  off  Mrs.  Chickenstalker 
down  the  dance,  and  danced  it  in  a  step  unknown  before  or 
since,  founded  on  his  own  peculiar  trot. 


Tiny   Tim. 


IT    will    surprise    you    all    very 
much  to  hear  that  there  was 

once  a  man  who  did  not  like 
Christmas.  In  fact,  he  had  been 
heard  on  several  occasions  to  use 
the  word  humbug  with  regfard  to  it. 
His  name  was  Scroog^e,  and  he 
was  a  hard,  sour-tempered  man  of 
business,  intent  only  on  saving- 
and  making  money,  and  caring 
nothing  for  anyone.  He  paid  the 
poor,  hard-working  clerk  in  his 
office  as  little  as  he  could  possibly 
get  the  work  done  for,  and  lived 
on  as  little  as  possible  himself, 
alone,  in  two  dismal  rooms.  He 
was  never  merry  or  comfortable  or 
happy,  and  he  hated  other  people 
'to  be  so,  and  that  was  the  reason 
why  he  hated  Christmas,  because 
people  will  be  happy  at  Christmas,  you  know,  if  they  pos- 
sibly can,  and  like  to  have  a  little  money  to  make  them- 
selves and  others  comfortable. 

Well,  it  was  Christmas  eve,  a  very  cold  and  foggy  one, 
and  Mr.  Scrooge,  having-  given  his  poor  clerk  unwilling  per- 
mission to  spend  Christmas  day  at  home,  locked  up  his 
office  and  went  home  himself  in  a  very  bad  temper,  and  with 
a  cold  in  his  head.     After  having-  taken  some  gruel,  as  he 

75 


BOB  CRATCHIT  AND  TINY  TIM 


76  TINY  TIM 

sat  over  a  miserable  fire  in  his  dismal  room,  he  got  into  bed 
and  had  some  wonderful  and  disagreeable  dreams,  to  which 
we  will  leave  him.,  whilst  we  see  how  Tiny  Tim,  the  son  of 
his  poor  clerk,  spent  Christmas  day. 

The  name  of  this  clerk  was  Bob  Cratchit.  He  had  a 
wife  and  five  other  children  besides  Tim,  who  was  a  weak 
and  delicate  little  cripple,  and  for  this  reason  was  dearly 
loved  by  his  father  and  the  rest  of  the  family;  not  but  what 
he  was  a  dear  little  boy,  too,  gentle  and  patient  and  loving, 
with  a  sweet  face  of  his  own,  which  no  one  could  help 
looking  at. 

Whenever  he  could  spare  the  time,  it  was  Mr.  Cratchit's 
delight  to  carry  his  little  boy  out  on  his  shoulder  to  see  the 
shops  and  the  people;  and  to-day  he  had  taken  him  to 
church  for  the  first  time. 

"Whatever  has  got  your  precious  father  and  your 
brother  Tiny  Tim!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cratchit,  "here's  dinner 
all  ready  to  be  dished  up.  I've  never  known  him  so  late  on 
Christmas  day  before." 

"Here  he  is,  mother!"  cried  Belinda,  and  "here  he  is!" 
cried  the  other  children. 

In  came  little  Bob,  the  father,  with  at  least  three  feet  of 
comforter,  exclusive  of  the  fringe,  hanging  down  before 
him ;  and  his  threadbare  clothes  darned  up  and  brushed,  to 
look  seasonable;  and  Tiny  Tim  upon  his  shoulder.  Alas 
for  Tiny  Tim,  he  bore  a  little  crutch,  and  had  his  limbs  sup- 
ported by  an  iron  frame! 

"Why,  Where's  our  Martha?"  cried  Bob  Cratchit, 
looking  round. 

Not  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

Not  coming!"  said  Bob,  with  a  sudden  declension  in 
his  high  spirits;  for  he  had  been  Tim's  blood  horse  all  the 


TINY  TIM  ^1 

way  from  church,  and  had  come  home  rampant.  "Not 
coming-  upon  Christmas  day!" 

Martha  didn't  like  to  see  him  disappointed,  if  it  were 
only  in  joke;  so  she  came  out  prematurely  from  behind  the 
closet-door,  and  ran  into  his  arms,  while  the  two  young 
Cratchits  hustled  Tiny  Tim,  and  bore  him  off  into  the  wash- 
house,  that  he  might  hear  the  pudding  singing  in  the  copper. 

**And  how  did  Tim  behave?"  asked  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

**As  good  as  gold  and  better,"  replied  his  father.  "I 
think,  wife,  the  child  gets  thoughtful,  sitting  at  home  so 
much.  He  told  me,  coming  home,  that  he  hoped  the  peo- 
ple in  church  who  saw  he  was  a  cripple  would  be  pleased  to 
remember  on  Christmas  day  who  it  was  made  the  lame 
to  walk." 

''Bless  his  sweet  heart!"  said  the  mother  in  a  trem- 
bling voice,  and  the  father's  voice  trembled,  too,  as  he  re- 
marked that  "Tiny  Tim  was  growing  strong  and  hearty 
at  last. 

His  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  and 
back  came  Tiny  Tim  before  another  word  was  spoken,  es- 
corted by  his  brother  and  sister  to  his  stool  beside  the  fire ; 
while  Bob,  Master  Peter,  and  the  two  ubiquitous  young 
Cratchits  went  to  fetch  the  goose,  with  which  they  soon 
returned  in  high  procession. 

Such  a  bustle  ensued  that  you  might  have  thought  a 
goose  the  rarest  of  all  birds;  a  feathered  phenomenon,  to 
which  a  black  swan  was  a  matter  of  course — and  in  truth  it 
was  something  very  like  it  in  that  house.  Mrs.  Cratchit 
made  the  gravy  (ready  beforehand  in  a  little  saucepan) 
hissing  hot;  Master  Peter  mashed  the  potatoes  with  incredi- 
ble vigor;  Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up  the  apple-sauce; 
Martha  dusted  the  hot  plates;  Bob  took  Tiny  Tim  beside 


78  TINY  TIM 

him  in  a  tiny  corner  at  the  table;  the  two  young-  Cratchits  set 
chairs  for  everybody,  not  forgetting-  themselves,  and,  mount- 
ing guard  upon  their  posts,  crammed  spoons  into  their 
mouths,  lest  they  should  shriek  for  goose  before  their  turn 
came  to  be  helped.  At  last  the  dishes  were  set  on,  and 
grace  was  said.  It  was  succeeded  by  a  breathless  pause,  as 
Mrs.  Cratchit,  looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving-knife, 
prepared  to  plunge  it  in  the  breast;  but  when  she  did,  and 
when  the  long-expected  gush  of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one 
murmur  of  delight  arose  all  round  the  board,  and  even  Tiny 
Tim,  excited  by  the  two  young  Cratchits,  beat  on  the  table 
with  the  handle  of  his  knife,  and  feebly  cried,  Hurrah! 

There  never  was  such  a  goose.  Bob  said  he  didn't 
believe  there  ever  was  such  a  goose  cooked.  Its  tenderness 
and  flavor,  size  and  cheapness  were  the  themes  of'  universal 
admiration.  Eked  out  by  apple-sauce  aud  mashed  potatoes, 
it  was  a  sufficient  dinner  for  the  whole  family;  indeed,  as 
Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great  delight  (surveying  one  small 
atom  of  a  bone  upon  the  dish),  they  hadn't  ate  it  all,  at  that! 
Yet  everyone  had  had  enough,  and  the  youngest  Cratchits, 
in  particular,  were  steeped  in  sage  and  onions  to  the  eye- 
brows !  But  now,  the  plates  being  changed  by  Miss  Belinda, 
Mrs.  Cratchit  left  the  room  alone — too  nervous  to  bear  wit- 
ness— to  take  the  pudding  up,  and  bring  it  in. 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  done  enough!  Suppose  it 
should  break  in  turning  out!  Suppose  somebody  should 
have  got  over  the  wall  of  the  back  yard  and  stolen  it,  while 
they  were  merry  with  the  goose — a  supposition  at  which  the 
two  young  Cratchits  became  livid!  All  sorts  of  horrors 
were  supposed. 

Halloo!  A  great  deal  of  steam!  The  pudding  was 
out  of  the  copper.     A  smell  like  a  washing-day !      That  was 


TINY  TIM  79 

the  cloth.  A  smell  like  an  eatingf-house  and  a  pastry  cook's 
next  door  to  each  other,  with  a  laundress  next  door  to  that ! 
That  was  the  pudding!  In  half  a  minute  Mrs.  Cratchit 
entered — flushed,  but  smiling-  proudly — with  the  pudding 
like  a  speckled  cannon-ball,  so  hard  and  firm,  blazing  in 
half  of  half-a-quartern  of  ignited  brandy,  and  bedight  with 
Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the  top. 

Oh,  a  wonderful  pudding!  Bob  Cratchit  said,  and 
calmly,  too,  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  greatest  success 
achieved  by  Mrs.  Cratchit  since  their  marriage.  Mrs.  Crat- 
chit said  that,  now  the  weight  was  off  her  mind,  she  would 
confess  she  had  her  doubts  about  the  quantity  of  flour. 
Everybody  had  something  to  say  about  it,  but  nobody  said 
or  thought  it  was  a  small  pudding  for  a  large  family.  It 
would  have  been  flat  heresy  to  do  so.  Any  Cratchit  would 
have  blushed  to  hint  at  such  a  thing. 

At  last  the  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was  cleared, 
the  hearth  swept,  and  the  fire  made  up.  The  compound  in 
the  jug  being  tasted,  and  considered  perfect,  apples  and 
oranges  were  put  upon  the  table,  and  a  shovel  full  of  chest- 
nuts on  the  fire.  Then  all  the  Cratchit  family  drew  round 
the  hearth  in  what  Bob  Cratchit  called  a  circle,  meaning" 
half  a  one;  and  at  Bob  Cratchit's  elbow  stood  the  family 
display  of  glass — two  tumblers  and  a  custard  cup  without 
a  handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jug,  however,  as  well 
as  golden  goblets  would  have  done ;  and  Bob  served  it  out 
with  beaming  looks,  while  the  chestnuts  on  the  fire  sput- 
tered and  cracked  noisily.     Then  Bob  proposed: 

"A  merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.     God  bless  us!" 

Which  all  the  family  re-echoed. 
'God  bless  us  everyone !"  said  Tiny  Tim,  the  last  of  all. 


<<. 


80  TINY  TIM 

Now  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Scrooge  had  some  disagree- 
able and  wonderful  dreams  on  Christmas  eve,  and  so  he 
had ;  and  in  one  of  them  he  dreamt  that  a  Christnias  spirit 
showed  him  his  clerk's  home;  he  saw  them  all  gathered 
round  the  fire,  and  heard  them  drink  his  health,  and  Tiny 
Tim's  song,  and  he  took  special  note  of  Tiny  Tim  himself. 
,  How    Mr.   Scrooge  spent  Christmas  day   we    do    not 

know.  He  may  have  remained  in  bed,  having  a  cold,  but 
on  Christmas  night  he  had  more  dreams,  and  the  spirit  took 
him  again  to  his  clerk's  poor  home.  The  mother  was  doing 
some  needlework,  seated  by  the  table,  a  tear  dropped  on  it 
now  and  then,  and  she  said,  poor  thing,  that  the  work,  which 
was  black,  hurt  her  eyes.  The  children  sat,  sad  and  silent, 
about  the  room,  except  Tiny  Tim,  who  was  not  there.  Up- 
stairs the  father,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands,  sat 
beside  a  little  bed,  on  which  lay  a  tiny  figure,  white  and  still. 
*'  My  little  child,  my  pretty  little  child,"  he  sobbed,  as  the 
tears  fell  through  his  fingers  on  to  the  floor.  "Tiny  Tim 
died  because  his  father  was  too  poor  to  give  him  what  was 
necessary  to  make  him  well ;  you  kept  him  poor;  "  said  the 
dream-spirit  to  Mr.  Scrooge.  The  father  kissed  the  cold,  little 
face  on  the  bed  and  went  down  stairs,  where  the  sprays  of 
holly  still  remained  about  the  humble  room  ;  and  taking  his- 
hat,  went  out,  with  a  wistful  glance  at  the  little  crutch 
in  the  corner  as  he  shut  the  door.  Mr.  Scrooge  saw  all  this, 
and  many  more  things  as  strange  and  sad — the  spirit  took 
care  of  that ;  but,  wonderful  to  relate,  he  woke  the  next  morn- 
ing feeling  a  different  man — feeling  as  he  had  never  felt  in  his 
life  before. 

''Why,  I  am  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  as  happy  as  an 
angel,  and  as  merry  as  a  schoolboy,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
absolutely  skipped  into  the  next  room  to  breakfast  and  threw 


TINY  TIM 


81 


on  all  the  coal  at  once,  and  put  two  lumps  of  sugar  in  his 
tea.  "I  hope  everybody  had  a  merry  Christmas,  and  here's  a 
happy  New  Year  to  all  the  world." 

Poor  Bob  Cratchit  crept  into  the  office  a  few  minutes  late, 
expecting^  to  be  roundly  abused  and  scolded  for  it,  but  no 


CRATCHIT    AND    MR.    SCROOGE. 


such  thingf ;  his  master  was  there  with  his  back  to  a  good  fire, 
and  actually  smiling,  and  he  shook  hands  with  his  clerk,  telling 
him  heartily  he  was  going  to  raise  his  salary,  and  asking  quite 
affectionately  after  Tiny  Tim!  "And  mind  you  make  up  a 
good  fire  in  your  room  before  you  set  to  work,  Bob,"  he  said, 
as  he  closed  his  own  door. 

6 


82  TINY  TIM 

Bob  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes  and  ears,  but  it 
was  all  true.  Such  doings  as  they  had  on  New  Year's  day 
had  never  been  seen  before  in  the  Cratchits'  home,  nor  such 
a  turkey  as  Mr.  Scrooge  sent  them  for  dinner.  Tiny  Tim  had 
his  share,  too,  for  Tiny  Tim  did  not  die,  not  a  bit  of  it. 
Mr.  Scrooge  was  a  second  father  to  him  from  that  day; 
he  wanted  for  nothing,  and  grew  up  strong  and  hearty. 
Mr.  Scrooge  loved  him,  and  well  he  might,  for  was  it  not 
Tiny  Tim  who  had  unconsciously,  through  the  Christmas 
dream-spirit,  touched  his  hard  heart  and  caused  him  to 
become  a  good  and  happy  man? 

Christmas  Carol 


Little  Dombey. 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  was  the  son  of  a  rich  city  merchant. 
Ever  since  his  marriage,  ten  years  before  our  story 
commences,  Mr.  Dombey  had  ardently  desired  to 
have  a  son.  He  was  a  cold,  stern,  and  pompous  man,  whose 
life  and  interests  were  entirely  absorbed  in  his  business, 
which  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  most  important  thing-  in  the 
whole  world.  It  was  not  so  much  that  he  wanted  a  son  to 
love,  and  to  love  him,  but  because  he  was  so  desirous  of  hav- 
ing one  to  associate  with  himself  in  the  business,  and  make 
the  house  once  more  Dombey  &  Son  in  fact,  as  it  was  in 
name,  that  the  little  boy  who  was  at  last  born  to  him  was  so 
precious,  and  so  eagerly  welcomed. 

There  was  a  pretty  little  girl  six  years  old,  but  her  father 
had   taken  so  little  notice  of  her  that  it  was  doubtful  if  he 

would  have  known  her  had  he  met  her  in  the  street.     Of  what 

83 


S4 


LITTLE  DOMBEY 


use  was  a  girl  to  Dombey  &  Son?     She  could  not  go  into 
the  business. 


'!' 


!'>- 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  AND  HIS  SISTER. 
"He  would  laugh  and  hold  out  his  arms  as  soon  as  she  came  in  sight." 

Little  Dombey' s  mother  died  when  he  was  born,  but  the 
event  did  not  greatly  disturb  Mr.  Dombey;  and  since  his  son 
lived,  what  did  it  matter   to    him  that  his    little   daughter 


LITTLE  DOMBEY 


85 


Florence  was  breaking-  her  heart  in  loneliness  for  the  mother 
who  had  loved  and  cherished  her! 

During-  the  first  few  months  of  his  life,  little  Dombey 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


grew  and  flourished;  and  as  soon  as  he  was  old  enoUjfh  to 
take  notice,  there  was  no  on^^  he  loved  so  well  as  his  sister 
Florence.  He  would  laugh  and  hold  out  his  arms  as  soon 
as  she  came  in  sight,  and  the  affection  of  her  baby  brother 


86  LITTLE  DOMBEY 

comforted  the  lonely  little  girl,  who  was  never  weary  of 
waiting-  on  and  playing  with  him. 

In  due  time  the  baby  was  taken  to  church,  and  baptized 
by  the  name  of  Paul  (his  father's  name).  A  grand  and 
stately  christening  it  was,  followed  by  a  grand  and  stately 
feast;  and  little  Paul,  when  he  was  brought  in  to  be  admired 
by  the  company,  was  declared  by  his  godmother  to  be  ''an 
angel,  and  the  perfect  picture  of  his  own  papa." 

Whether  baby  Paul  caught  cold  on  his  christening  day 
or  not,  no  one  could  tell,  but  from  that  time  he  seemed  to 
waste  and  pine;  his  healthy  and  thriving  babyhood  had 
received  a  check,  and  as  for  illnesses,  "there  never  was  a 
blessed  dear  so  put  upon,"  his  nurse  said.  Every  tooth  cost 
him  a  fit,  and  as  for  chicken-pox,  whooping-cough,  and 
measles,  they  followed  one  upon  the  other,  and,  to  quote 
Nurse  Richards  again,  "seized  and  worried  him  like  tiger 
cats,"  so  that  by  the  time  he  was  five  years  old,  though  he 
had  the  prettiest,  sweetest  little  face  in  the  world,  there  was 
always  a  patient,  wistful  look  upon  it,  and  he  was  thin  and 
tiny  and  delicate.  He  would  be  as  merry  and  full  of  spirits 
as  other  children  when  playing  with  Florence  in  their  nursery, 
but  he  soon  got  tired,  and  had  such  old-fashioned  ways  of 
speaking  and  doing  thmgs,  that  Richards  often  shook  her 
head  sadly  over  him. 

When  he  sat  in  his  little  arm-chair  with  his  father,  after 
dinner,  as  Mr.  Dombey  would  have  him  do  every  day,  they 
were  a  strange  pair — so  like,  and  so  unlike  each  other. 

"What  is  money,  papa?"  asked  Paul  on  one  of  these 
occasions,  crossing  his  tiny  arms  as  well  as  he  could — just 
;i5  his  father's  were  crossed. 

"Why,  gold,  silver,  and  copper;  you  know  what  it  is 
well  enough,  Paul,"  answered  his  father. 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  ^7 


Oh,  yes;  I  mean,  what  can  money  do?" 
'Anything",  everything — almost,"  replied  Mr.   Dombey, 
taking  one  of  his   son's  wee   hands,    and   beating  it  softly 
ag-ainst  his  own. 

Paul  drew  his  hand  gently  away.  '*It  didn't  save  me 
my  mamma,  and  it  can't  make  me  strong  and  big,"  said  he. 

"Why  you  ci^c  strong  and  big,  as  big  as  such  little 
people  usually  are,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

''No,"  replied  Paul,  sighing;  "when  Florence  was  as 
little  as  me,  she  was  strong-  and  tall,  and  did  not  get  tired  of 
playing  as  I  do.     I  am  so  tired  sometimes,  papa." 

Mr.  Dombey' s  anxiety  was  aroused,  and  he  summoned 
his  sister,  Mrs.  Chick,  to  consult  with  him  over  Paul,  and 
the  doctor  was  sent  for  to  examine  him. 

"The  child  is  hardly  so  stout  as  we  could  wish,"  said  the 
doctor;  "his  mind  is  too  big  for  his  body,  bethinks  too  much 
— let  him  try  sea-air — sea-air  does  wonders  for  children." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Florence,  Paul,  and  nurse 
should  go  to  Brighton,  and  stay  in  the  house  of  a  lady 
named  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  kept  a  very  select  boarding-house 
for  children,  and  whose  management  of  them  was  said,  in 
the  best  circles,  to  be  truly  marvelous.  Mr.  Dombey  him- 
self went  down  to  Brighton  every  week,  and  had  the  children 
to  stay  with  him  at  his  hotel  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  that 
he  mig-ht  judge  of  the  prog^ress  made  by  his  son  and  heir 
towards  health. 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  apart  from  his  importance  to 
the  house  of  Dombey  &  Son,  little  Paul  had  crept  into  his 
father's  heart,  cold  though  it  still  was  towards  his  daughter, 
colder  than  ever  now,  for  there  was  in  it  a  sort  of  un- 
acknowledged jealousy  of  the  warm  love  lavished  on  her  by 
Paul,  which  he  himself  was  unable  to  win. 


88 


LITTLE  DOMBBY 


....  Vi: 


•f . .  •  •-*  •  •-  ••• 


,v .. 


,.^..>»  -•••"iH 


■  •  i-".rx<i. 


i'^^^Js^^K'- 


_^5^^-*''  "■'v.^i,,:^._^< 


,"  •  iif  J.•»•!'«•,vi■-.=^i•:?.t«.ia«~>•;4y--l<• 


■*f'^:<^^^«^>!V^ 


LITTLE  PAUL   AND  FLORENCE. 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  89 

Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  marvelously  ugly  old  lady,  with  a 
hook  nose  and  stern  cold  eyes.  Two  other  children  lived  at 
present  under  her  charge,  a  mild,  blue-eyed  little  girl  whc 
was  known  as  Miss  Pankey,  and  a  Master  Bitherstone,  a 
solemn  and  sad-looking  little  boy  whose  parents  were  in 
India,  and  who  asked  Florence  in  a  depressed  voice  whether 
she  could  give  him  any  ide^.  of-  the  way  back  to  Bengal. 

"Well,  Master  Paul,  how  do  you  think  you  will  like  me?" 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  seeing  the  child  intently  regarding  her. 

''I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  at  all,"  replied  Paul,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "I  want  to  go  away^  I  do  not  like  your 
house." 

Paul  did  not  like  Mrs.  Pipchin,  but  he  would  sit  in  his 
arm-chair  and  look  at  her,  just  as  he  had  looked  at  his  father 
at  home.     Her  ugliness  seemed  to  fascinate  him. 

As  the  weeks  went  by  little  Paul  grew  more  healthy- 
looking,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  grow  any  stronger,  and  could 
not  run  about  out  of  doors.  A  little  carriage  was  therefore 
got  for  him,  in  which  he  could  be  wheeled  down  to  the  beach, 
where  he  would  pass  the  greater  part  of  the  day. 

Consistent  in  his  odd  tastes,  the  child  set  aside  a  ruddy- 
faced  lad  who  was  proposed  as  the  drawer  of  his  carriage, 
and  selected,  instead,  his  grandfather — a  weazen,  cold,  crab- 
faced  man,  in  a  suit  of  battered  oilskin,  who  had  got  tough 
and  stringy  from  long  pickling  in  salt  water,  and  who  smelt 
like  a  weedy  seabeach  when  the  tide  is  out. 

With  this  notable  attendant  to  pull  him  along,  and 
Florence  always  walking  by  his  side,  and  the  despondent 
Wickam  bringing  up  the  rear,  he  went  down  to  the  margin 
of  the  ocean  every  day ;  and  there  he  would  sit  or  lie  in  his 
carriage  for  hours  together;  never  so  distressed  as  by  the 
company  of  children — Florence  alone  excepted,  always. 


90  LITTLE  DOMBEY 

"Go  away,  if  you  please,"  he  would  say  to  any  child 
who  came  to  bear  him  company.  "Thank  you,  but  I  don't 
want  you." 

Some  small  voice,  near  his  ear,  would  ask  him  how  he 
was,  perhaps. 

"I  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,"  he  would  answer.  "But 
you  had  better  g-o  and  play,  if  you  please." 

Then  he  would  turn  his  head  and  watch  the  child  away, 
and  say  to  Florence,  "We  don't  want  any  others,  do  we? 
Kiss  me,  Floy." 

"I  love  you,  Floy,"  he  said  one  day  to  her;  "if  you  went 
to  India  as  that  boy's  sister  did,  I  should  die." 

Florence  laid  her  head  against  his  pillow,  and  whispered 
how  much  stronger  he  was  growing. 

"Oh  yes,  I  know,  I  am  a  great  deal  better,"  said  Paul, 
"a  very  great  deal  better.  Listen,  Floy;  what  is  it  the  sea 
keeps  saying? " 

"Nothing,  dear;  it  is  only  the  rolling-  of  the  waves  you 
hear." 

"Yes,  but  they  are  always  saying  something,  and  always 
the  same  thing.     What  place  is  over  there,  Floy?" 

She  told  him  there  was  another  country  opposite,  but 
Paul  said  he  did  not  mean  that,  he  meant  somewhere  much 
farther  away,  oh,  much  farther  away — and  often  he  would 
break  off  in  the  midst  of  their  talk  to  listen  to  the  sea  and 
gaze  out  toward  that  country  "farther  away." 

After  having-  lived  at  Brighton  for  a  year,  Paul  was  cer. 
tainly  much  stronger,  though  still  thin  and  delicate.  And 
on  one  of  his  weekly  visits,  Mr.  Dombey  observed  to  Mrs. 
Pipchin,with  pompous  condescension, "My  son  is  g^etting-  on, 
Madam,  he  is  really  getting-  on.  He  is  six  years  of  age,  and 
six  will  be  sixteen  before  we  have  time  to  look  about  us." 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  91 

And  then  he  went  on  to  explain  that  Paul's  weak  health  hav- 
ing kept  him  back  in  his  studies,  which,  considering-  the  great 
destiny  before  the  heir  of  Dombey  &  Son,  was  much  to  be 
regretted,  he  had  made  arrangements  to  place  him  at  the  ed- 
ucational establishment  of  Dr.  Blimber,  which  was  close  by. 
Florence  was,  for  the  present,  to  remain  under  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
care,  and  see  her  brother  every  week. 

Dr.  Blimber' s  school  was  a  great  hot-house  for  the  forc- 
ing of  boys'  brains ;   no  matter  how  backward   a   boy  was 
Doctor  Blimber  could  always  bring  him  on,  and  make  a  man 
of  him  in  no  time;   and  Dr.   Blimber  promised  speedily  to 
make  a  man  of  Paul. 

''Shall  you  like  to  be  made  a  man  of,  my  son?"   asked 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"I'd  rather  be  a  child  and  stay  with  Floy,"  answered 
Paul. 

Then  a  different  life  began  for  little  Dombey. 

Miss  Blimber,  the  doctor's  daughter,  a  learned  lady  in 
spectacles,  was  his  special  tutor,  and  from  morning  till  night 
his  poor  little  brains  were  forced  and  crammed,  till  his  head 
was  heavy  and  always  had  a  dull  ache  in  it,  and  his  small 
legs  grew  weak  again — every  day  he  looked  a  little  thinner  and 
a  little  paler,  and  became  more  old-fashioned  than  ever  in  his 
looks  and  ways — ''old-fashioned"  was  a  distinguishing  title 
which  clung  to  him.  He  was  gentle  and  polite  to  everyone 
— always  looking  out  for  small  kindnesses  which  he  might 
do  to  any  inmate  of  the  house.  Everyone  liked  "little  Dom- 
bey," but  everyone  down  to  the  footman  said  with  the  same 
kind  of  a  tender  smile — he  was  such  an  old-fashioned  boy. 
"The  oddest  and  most  old-fashioned  child  in  the  world,"  Dr. 
Blimber  would  say  to  his  daugher;  "but  bring  him  on,  Cor- 
nelia— bring  him  on." 


92 


LITTLE  DOMBEY 


And  Cornelia  did  bring-  him  on;  and  Florence,  seeing- how 
pale  and  weary  the  little  fellow  looked  when  he  came  to  her 
on  Saturdays,  and  how  he  could  not  rest  for  anxiety  about 
his  lessons,  would  lighten  his  labors  a  little,  and  ease  his 
mind  by  helping  him  to  prepare  his  week's  work. 

One  of  Paul's  friends  at  Dr.  Blimber's  school  was  a 
Mr.  Toots,  a  young-  gentleman  with  a  swollen  nose  and  an 


FLORENCE  AND  LITTLE  PAUL. 


excessively  large  head.  The  people  said  that  the  doctor 
overdid  it  with  young  Toots,  and  that  when  he  beg-an  to  have 
whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 

One  day,  when  his  lessons  were  over,  about  a  fortnight 
before  the  commencement  of  holidays,  little  Paul's  head, 
which  had  long  been  ailing  more  or  less,  and  was  sometimes 
very  heavy  and  painful,  felt  so  uneasy  that  night  that  he  was 
obliged  to  support  it  on  his  hand.     And  yet  it  drooped  so, 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  93 

that  by  little  and  little  it  sank  on  Mr.  Toots'  knee,  and  rested 
there,  as  if  it  had  no  care  ever  to  be  lifted  up  ag-ain. 

That  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  deaf;  but  he  must 
have  been,  he  thought,  for,  by-and-by,  he  heard  Mr.  Feeder 
calling-  in  his  ear,  and  gently  shaking-  him  to  rouse  his  atten- 
tion. And  when  he  raised  his  head,  quite  scared,  and  looked 
about  him,  he  found  that  Doctor  Blimber  had  come  into  the 
room,  and  that  the  window  was  open,  and  that  his  fore- 
head was  wet  with  sprinkled  water;  though  how  all  this  had 
been  done  without  his  knowledge  was  very  curious  indeed. 

"Ah!  Come,  come!  That's  well!  How  is  my  little 
friend  now?"   said  Doctor  Blimber,  encouragingly. 

''Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 

But  there  s.^.emed  to  be  something  the  matter  with  the 
floor,  for  he  couldn't  stand  upon  it  steadily;  and  with  the 
walls  too,  for  they  were  inclined  to  turn  round  and  round, 
and  could  only  be  stopped  by  being  looked  at  very  hard  in- 
deed. Mr.  Toots'  head  had  the  appearance  of  being-  at  once 
bigger  and  farther  off  than  was  quite  natural ;  and  whsn  he 
took  Paul  in  his  arms,  to  carry  him  upstairs,  Paul  observed 
with  astonishment  that  the  door  was  in  quite  a  different  place 
from  that  in  which  he  had  expected  to  find  it,  and  almost 
thought,  at  first,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  going  to  walk  straight 
up  the  chimney. 

It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Toots,  Paul's  chief  patron,  to 
carry  him  to  the  top  of  the  house  so  tenderly;  and  Paul  told 
him  that  it  was.  But  Mr.  Toots  said  he  would  do  a  great 
deal  more  than  that,  if  he  could ;  and  indeed  he  did  more  as 
it  was,  for  he  helped  Paul  to  undress,  and  helped  him  to 
bed,  in  the  kindest  manner  possible. 

In  a  few  days  Paul  was  able  to  get  up  and  creep  about 
the  house.     He  wondered  sometimes  why  everyone  looked 


94  LITTLE  DOMBEY 

at  and  spoke  so  very  kindly  to  him,  and  was  more  than  ever 
careful  to  do  any  little  kindnesses  he  could  think  of  for  them; 
even  the  roug-h,  ug-ly  dog-  Diog-enes,  who  lived  in  the  yard, 
came  in  for  a  share  of  his  attentions. 

There  was  to  be  a  party  at  Dr.  Blimber's  on  the  evening 
before  the  boys  went  home,  and  Paul  wished  to  remain  for 
this,  because  Florence  was  coming,  and  he  wanted  her  to  see 
how  everyone  was  fond  of  him.  He  was  to  g-o  away  with 
her  after  the  party.  Paul  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  all  the 
evening,  and  everyone  was  very  kind  to  him,  indeed,  it  was 
quite  extraordinary,  Paul  thoug^ht,  and  he  was  very  happy; 
he  liked  to  see  how  pretty  Florence  was,  and  how  everyone 
admired  and  wished  to  dance  with  her.  When  the  time 
came  for  them  to  take  leave,  the  whole  houseful  g-athered  on 
the  steps  to  say  good-by  to  little  Dombey  and  his  sister, 
Toots  even  opening  the  carriage-door  to  say  it  over  ag-ain. 

"Good-by,  Dr.  Blimber;  said  Paul,  stretching-  out  his 
hand. 

"Good-by,  my  little  friend,"  returned  the  doctor. 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Paul,  looking 
innocently  up  into  his  awful  face.  **Ask  them  to  take  care 
of  Diog-enes,  if  you  please." 

Diog-enes  was  the  dog,  who  had  never  in  his  life  received 
a  friend  into  his  confidence  before  Paul.  So  the  doctor 
promised  that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to  Diogenes  in 
Paul's  absence. 

After  resting  for  a  night  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's  house,  little 
Paul  went  home,  and  was  carried  straight  upstairs  to  his  bed. 

''Floy,  dear,"  said  he  to  his  sister,  when  he  was  com- 
fortably settled,  *Vas  that  papa  in  the  hall  when  I  was 
carried  in?" 

'Yes,  dear,"  answered  Florence. 


<(-< 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  95 

"He  didn't  cry,  did  he,  Floy,  and  g-o  into  his  own  room 
when  he  saw  me?" 

Florence  could  only  shake  her  head  and  hide  her  face 
ag-ainst  his,  as  she  kissed  him. 

**I  should  not  like  to  think  papa  cried,"  murmured  little 
Paul,  as  he  went  to  sleep. 

He  Jay  in  his  bed  day  after  day  quite  happily  and 
patiently,  content  to  watch  and  talk  to  Florence.  He  would 
tell  her  his  dreams,  and  how  he  always  saw  the  sunlit  ripples 
of  a  river  rolling,  rolling  fast  in  front  of  him;  sometimes  he 
seemed  to  be  rocking  in  a  little  boat  on  the  water  and  its 
motion  lulled  him  to  rest,  and  then  he  would  be  floating 
away,  away  to  that  shore  farther  off,  which  he  could  not 
see.  One  day  he  told  Florence  that  the  water  was  rippling- 
brighter  and  faster  than  ever,  and  that  he  could  not  see  any- 
thing- else. 

**My  own  boy,  cannot  you  see  your  poor  father?"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  bending  over  him. 

"Oh  yes;  but  don't  be  so  sorry,  dear  papa,  I  am  so 
happy — good-by,  dear  papa."  Presently  he  opened  his  eyes 
again,  and  said,  "Floy,  mamma  is  like  you,  I  can  see  her. 
Come  close  to  me,  Floy,  and  tell  them,"  whispered  the  dying- 
boy,  "that  the  face  of  the  picture  of  Christ  on  the  staircase 
at  school  is  not  divine  enoug-h;  the  light  from  it  is  shining 
on  me  now,  and  the  water  is  shining,  too,  and  rippling-  so 
fast,  so  fast." 

The  evening  light  shone  into  the  room,  but  little  Paul's 
spirit  had  g-one  out  on  the  rippling  water,  and  the  divine  face 
was  shining  on  him  from  the  farther  shore. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  funeral,  Florence  was 
sitting-  at  her  work  when  Susan  appeared,  with  a  face  half 
laughing  and  half  crying,  to  announce  a  visitor. 


96  LITTLE  DOMBEY 

"A  visitor!  To  me,  Susan?"  said  Florence,  looking^ 
up  in  astonishment. 

"Well,  it  is  a  wonder,  ain't  it  now.  Miss  Floy,"  said 
Susan;  ''but  I  wish  you  had  a  many  visitors,  I  do,  indeed, 
for  you'd  be  all  the  better  for  it,  and  it's  my  opinion  that  the 
sooner  you  and  me  goes  even  to  them  old  Skettleses,  Miss, 
the  better  for  both.  I  may  not  wish  to  live  in  crowds,  Miss 
Floy,  but  still  I'm  not  an  oyster." 

To  do  Miss  Nipper  justice,  she  spoke  more  for  her 
young-  mistress  than  herself ;  and  her  face  showed  it. 

''But  the  visitor,  Susan!  "  said  Florence. 

Susan,  with  an  hysterical  explosion  that  was  as  much  a 
laugh  as  a  sob,  and  as  much  a  sob  as  a  laugh,  answered : 

"Mr.  Toots!" 

The  smile  that  appeared  on  Florence's  face  passed  from 
it  in  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  at  any 
rate  it  was  a  smile,  and  that  gave  great  satisfaction  to  Miss 
Nipper. 

"My  own  feelings  exactly,  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan, 
putting  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  shaking  her  head.  "Im- 
mediately I  see  that  innocent  in  the  hall,  Miss  Floy,  I  burst 
out  laughing  first,  and  then  I  choked." 

Susan  Nipper  involuntarily  proceeded  to  do  the  like 
again  on  the  spot.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Toots,  who  had 
come  upstairs  after  her,  all  unconscious  of  the  effect  he  pro- 
duced, announced  himself  with  his  knuckles  on  the  door,  and 
walked  in  very  briskly. 

"How  d'ye  do.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "lam 
very  well,  I  thank  you;   how  are  you?" 

Mr.  Toots — than  whom  there  were  few  better  fellows 
in  the  world,  though  there  may  have  been  one  or  two 
brighter  spirits— had  laboriously  invented  this  long  burst  of 


LITTLE  DOMBEY 


97 


discourse  with  the  view  of  relieving-  the  feelings  both  of 
Florence  and  himself.  But  finding-  that  he  had  run  through 
his  property,  as  it  were,  in  an  injudicious  manner,  by  squan- 
dering- the  whole  before  taking  a  chair,  or  before  Florence 
had  uttered  a  word,  or  before  he  had  well  got  in  at  the  door, 
he  deemed  it  ad- 
visable to  beg-in 
again. 

"How  dy'e 
do.  Miss  Dom 
bey?"  said  Mr. 
Toots.  **  I'm  very 
v/ell,  I  thank  you ; 
how  are  you?" 

Florence 
g^  a  V  e  him  her 
hand,  and  said  she 
was  very  well. 

1  m  very 
well,  indeed,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  taking" 
a  chair.  '*  Very 
well,  indeed,  I  am. 

I     don't     remem-  miss  blimmer and  pauu 

ber,"     said    Mr. 

Toots,  after  reflecting-  a  little,  **that  I  was  ever  better,  thank 
you.'^'^ 

''It's  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Florence,  taking 
up  her  work.     *'I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Toots  replied  with  a  chuckle.    Thinking  that  might 

be  too  lively,  he  corrected   it  with  a  sigh.     Thinking  that 

might  be  too  melancholy,   he  corrected  it  with  a  chuckle. 
7 


98  LITTLE  DOMBEY 

Not  thoroughly  pleasing-  himself  with  either  mode  of  reply,  he 
breathed  hard. 

*'You  were  very  kind  to  my  dear  brother,"  said  Florence, 
obeying  her  own  natural  impulse  to  relieve  him  by  saying 
so.      "He  often  talked  to  me  about  you." 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  hastily. 
"Warm,  ain't  it?" 

"It's  beautiful  weather,"  replied  Florence. 

"It  agrees  with  nier'  said  Mr.  Toots.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  was  so  well  as  I  find  myself  at  present,  I'm 
obliged  to  you." 

After  stating  this  curious  and  unexpected  fact,  Mr. 
Toots  fell  into  a  deep  well  of  silence. 

"You  have  left  Dr.  Blimber's,  I  think?"  said  Florence, 
t    ing  to  help  him  out. 

"I  should  hope  so,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  And  tumbled 
in  again. 

He  remained  at  the  bottom,  apparently  drowned,  for  at 
least  ten  minutes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period  he 
suddenly  floated,  and.  said  : 

Well!     Good-morning,   Miss  Dombey." 
Are  you  going?"  asked  Florence,  rising. 

"I  don't  know,  though.  No,  not  just  at  present,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  sitting  down  again,  most  unexpectedly.  ''The 
fact  is — I  say.  Miss  Dombey!  " 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,"  said  Florence,  with  a 
quiet  smile.  "I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  talk 
about  my  brother." 

"Would  you,  though,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots,  with  sym- 
pathy in  every  fibre  of  his  otherwise  expressionless  face. 
"Poor  Dombey!  [I  am  sure  I  never  thought  that  Burgess  & 
Co. — fashionable  tailors  (but  very  dear),   that  we  used  to 


<<^ 


(( 


^~"§k''$-''^, 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  99 

talk  about — would  make  this  suit  of  clothes  for  such  a  pur- 
pose.     Mr.  Toots  was  dressed  in  mourning-.]  "PoorDombey! 
I  say,   Miss  Dombey!"  blubbered   Toots. 
'Yes,"  said  Florence. 

'There's  a  friend  he  took  to  very  much  at  last.  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  have  him,  perhaps,  as  a  sort  of  keep- 
sake.    You  remember  his  remembering-  Diog-enes?.  " 

"Oh  yes!     oh  yes!"     cried  Florence. 

"Poor  Dombey!     So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots,  seeing-  Florence  in  tears,  had  great  difficulty 
in  getting-  beyond  this  point,  and  had  nearly  tumbled  into 
the  well  again.     But  a  chuckle  saved  him  on  the  brink. 

"I  say,"  he  proceeded,  "Miss  Dombey!  I  could  have 
had  him  stolen  for  ten  shillings,  if  they  hadn't  given  him  up, 
and  I  would,  but  they  were  glad  to  get  rid  of  him,  I  think. 
If  you'd  like  to  have  him,  he's  at  the  door.  I  brought  him 
on  purpose  for  you.  He  ain't  a  lady's  dog,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  "but  you  won't  mind  that,  will  you?" 

In  fact,  Diogenes  was  at  that  moment,  as  they  presently 
ascertained  from  looking  down  into  the  street,  staring  through 
the  window  of  a  hackney  cabriolet,  into  which,  for  convey- 
ance to  that  spot,  he  had  been  ensnared  on  a  false  pretense 
of  rats  among  the  straw.  Sooth  to  say,  he  was  as  unlike  a 
lady's  dog  as  dog  might  be;  and  in  his  gruff  anxiety  to  get 
out  presented  an  appearance  sufficiently  unpromising  as  he 
gave  short  yelps  out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  over- 
balancing himself  by  the  intensity  of  every  one  of  those 
efforts  tumbled  down  into  the  straw,  and  then  sprang,  pant- 
ing, up  again,  putting  out  his  tongue,  as  if  he  had  come 
express  to  a  dispensary  to  be  examined  for  his  health. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a  dog  as  one 
would  meet  with    on   a   summer's    day — a  blundering,  ill- 


ICX) 


1  LITTLE  DOMBEY 

favored,  clumsy,  bullet-headed  dog-,  continually  acting  on  a 
wrong  idea  that  there  was  an  enemy  in  the  neighborhood, 
whom  it  was  meritorious  to  bark  at ;  and  though  he  was  far 
from  good-tempered,  and  certainly  was  not  clever,  and  had  hair 


"I  DON'T  THINK  I  SHALL  LIKE  YOU  AT  ALL,"  REPLIED  PAUL, 

all  over  his  eyes,  and  a  comic  nose,  and  an  inconsistent  tail 
and  a  gruff  voice— he  was  dearer  to  Florence,  in  virtue  of 
that  parting  remembrance  of  him  and  that  request  that  he 
might  be  taken  care  of,  than  the  most  valuable  and  beauti- 


LITTLE  DOMBEY  loi 

ful  of  his  kind.  So  dear,  indeed,  was  this  same  ugly 
Diog-enes,  and  so  welcome  to  her,  that  she  took  the  jeweled 
hand  of  Mr.  Toots  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude.  And  when 
Diog-enes,  released,  came  tearing-  up  the  stairs  and,  bouncing 
into  the  room,  dived  under  all  the  furniture,  and  wound  a 
long  iron  chain  that  dangled  from  his  neck  round  legs  of 
chairs  and  tables,  and  then  tugged  at  it  until  his  eyes  became 
unnaturally  visible,  in  consequence  of  their  nearly  starting 
out  of  his  head,  and  when  he  growled  at  Mr.  Toots,  who 
affected  familiarity,  Florence  was  as  pleased  with  him  as  if 
he  had  been  a  miracle  of  discretion. 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his 
present,  and  was  so  delighted  to  see  Florence  bending  down 
over  Diogenes,  smoothing  his  coarse  back  with  her  delicate 
little  hand — Diogenes  graciously  allowing  it  from  the  first 
moment  of  their  acquaintance — that  he  felt  it  difficult  to  take 
leave,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  a  much  longer  time 
in  making  up  his  mind  to  do  so  if  he  had  not  been  assisted 
by  Diogenes  himself,  who  suddenly  took  it  into  his  head  to 
bay  Mr.  Toots,  and  to  make  short  runs  at  him  with  his 
mouth  open.  Not  exactly  seeing  his  way  to  the  end  of  these 
demonstrations,  and  sensible  that  they  placed  the  pantaloons 
constructed  by  the  art  of  Burgess  &  Co.  in  jeopardy,  Mr. 
Toots,  with  chuckles,  finally  took  himself  off  and  got  away. 

"Come,  then,  Di!  DearDi!  Make  friends  with  your 
new  mistress.  Let  us  love  each  other,  Di!"  said  Florence, 
fondling  his  shaggy  head.  And  Di,  the  rough  and  gruff,  as 
if  his  hairy  hide  were  pervious  to  the  tear  that  dropped  upon 
it,  and  his  dog's  heart  melted  as  it  fell,  put  his  nose  up  to  her 
face,  and  swore  fidelity. 

Diogenes  the  man  did  not  speak  plainer  to  Alexander 
the  Great  than  Diogenes   the   dog   spoke   to  Florence.     He 


102  LITTLE  DOMBEY 

subscribed  to  the  offer  of  his  little  mistress  cheerfully,  and 
devoted  himself  to  her  service.  A  banquet  was  immediately 
provided  for  him  in  a  corner;  and  when  he  had  eaten  and 
drunk  his  fill  he  went  to  the  window,  where  Florence  was 
sitting-,  looking^  on,  rose  up  on  his  hind  leg-s,  with  his  awk- 
ward forepaws  on  her  shoulders,  licked  her  face  and  hands, 
nestled  his  great  head  ag-ainst  her  heart,  and  wagged  his  tail 
till  he  was  tired.  Finally,  Diogenes  coiled  himself  up  at  her 
feet  and  went  to  sleep. 


The  Runaway  Couple. 


s 


UPPOSING  a  young-  gentleman  not  eight  years  old 

was  to  run  away  with  a  fine  young  woman  of  seven, 

would  you  consider  that  a  queer  start?     That  there  is 

a  start  as  I — the  Boots  at  Holly-Tree  Inn — have  seen  with 

my  own  eyes  ;  and  I  cleaned  the  shoes  they  ran  away  in,  and 

they  was  so  little  that  I  couldn't  get  my  hand  into  'em. 

''  Master  Harry  Walmers'  father,  he  lived  at  the  Elms, 
away  by  Shooter's  Hill,  six  or  seven  miles  from  London. 
He  was  uncommon  proud  of  Master  Harry,  as  he  was  his 
only  child;  but  he  didn't  spoil  him,  neither.  He  was  a  gen- 
tleman that  had  a  will  of  his  own,  and  an  eye  of  his  own, 
and  that  would  be  minded.  Consequently,  though  he  made 
quite' a  companion  of  the  fine  bright  boy,  still  he  kept  the 
command  over  him,  and  the  child  was  a  child.  I  was 
under-gardener  there  at  that  time ;  and  one  morning  Master 
Harry,  he   comes  to  me  and  says — 

"*Cobbs,  how  should  you  spell  Norah  if  you  was 
asked?'  and  then  began  cutting  it  in  print  all  over  the 
fence. 

**He  couldn't  say  he  had   taken    particular   notice   of 

,  children  before  that ;  but  really  it  was  pretty  to  see  them  two 

mites  a-going  about  the  place  together,   deep  in  love!     And 

the  courage  of  the  boy!     Bless  your  soul,  he'd  have  throwed 

\  off  his  little  hat,  and  tucked  up  his  little  sleeves,  and  gone  in 

at  a  lion,  he  would,  if  they  had  happened  to  meet  one  and 

she  had  been  frightened  of  him.     One  day    he   stops   along 

with  her,  where  Boots  was  hoeing  weeds  in  the  gravel,  and 

says — speaking  up,  *  Cobbs,'  he  says,  '  I  like  you.'     'Do  you, 

sir?     I'm  proud  to  hear  it.'     'Yes,  I  do,  Cobbs.     Why  do  I 

like  you,   do   you   think,  Cobbs?'     'Don't   know.    Master 

103 


104 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE 


MASTER  HARRY     AND  NORAH    ARRIVE  AT    THE  HOLLY-TREE  INN.  , 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  105 

Harry,  I  am  sure.'  'Because  Norah  likes  you,  Cobbs.' 
*  Indeed,  sir?  That's  very  gratifying-.'  *  Gratifying,  Cobbs? 
It's  better  than  millions  of  the  brightest  diamonds  to  be 
liked  by  Norah.'  'Certainly,  sir.'  'You're  going  away, 
ain't  you,  Cobbs?'  'Yes,  sir.'  'Would  you  like  another 
situation,  Cobbs?'  'Well,  sir,  I  shouldn't  object,  if  it  was 
a  good  'un.'  'Then,  Cobbs,'  says  he,  'you  shall  be  our  head 
gardener  when  we  are  married.'  And  he  tucks  her,  in  her 
little  sky-blue  mantle,  under  his  arm,  and  walks  away. 

"  It  was  better  than  a  picter,  and  equal  to  a  play,  to  see 
them  babies  with  their  long,  bright,  curling  hair,  their  spark- 
ling eyes,  and  their  beautiful  light  tread,  a-rambling  about 
the  garden,  deep  in  love.  Boots  was  of  opinion  that  the 
birds  believed  they  was  birds,  and  kept  up  with  'em,  singing 
to  please  'em.  Sometimes  they  would  creep  under  the 
Tulip  tree,  and  would  sit  there  with  their  arms  round  one 
another's  necks,  and  their  soft  cheeks  touching,  a-reading 
about  the  prince  and  the  dragon,  and  the  good  and  bad  en- 
chanters, and  the  king's  fair  daughter.  Sometimes  he  would 
hear  them  planning  about  having  a  house  in  a  forest,  keep- 
ing bees  and  a  cow,  and  living  entirely  on  milk  and  honey. 
Once  he  came  upon  them  by  the  pond,  and  heard  Master 
Harry  say:  'Adorable  Norah,  kiss  me,  and  say  you  love  me 
to  distraction,  or  I'll  jump  in  headforemost.'  And  Boots^ 
made  no  question  he  would  have  done  it  if  she  hadn't  com- 
plied. 

"'Cobbs,*  says  Master  Harry  one  evening  when 
Cobbs  was  watering  the  flowers,  '  I  am  going  on  a  visit,  this 
present  mid-summer,  to  my  grandmamma's  at  York.' 

"  'Are  you,  indeed,  sir?     I  hope  you'll  have  a  pleasant 
time.     I  am  going  into  Yorkshire  myself  when  I  leave  here.' 
Are  you  going  to  your  grandmamma's,  Cobbs?' 


<(  < 


I06 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE 


(( ( 


<  <  ( 


No,  sir.     I  haven't  gfot 
such  a  thing-/ 

"'Not  as  a  grand- 
mamma,  Cobbs?' 
No,  sir.' 
The  boy  looked  on  at 
the  watering  of  the  flowers  for 
a  little  while  and  then  said,  '  I 
shall  be  very  glad,  indeed,  to 
go,  Cobbs — Norah's  going.* 

"'You'll  be  all 
right  then,  sir,*  says 
Cobbs,  'with  your 
beautiful  sweetheart 
by  your  side.' 

'Cobbs,'  returned 
the  boy,  flushing,  'I 
never  let  anybody  joke 
about  it  when  I  can 
prevent  them.' 

It  wasn  t  a 
joke,  sir,*  says 
Cobbs,  with  hu- 
mility—  'wasn't 
so  meant.' 

"'I  am  glad 
of  that,  Cobbs, 
because  I  like 
you,  you  know, 
and  you're  going 
to  live  with  us,  Cobbs.' 
Sir?' 


MASTER    HARRY   AND   NORAH. 
"  Walks  into  the  house  much  bolder  than  brass." 


<(  < 


((  ( 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  107 

***What  do  you  think  my  grandmamma  g^ives  me  when 
I  gfo  down  there?' 

I  couldn't  so  much  as  make  a  gfuess,  sin* 
A  Bank  of  England  five-pound  note,  Cobbs.* 
Whew  1 '    says    Cobbs,    'that's  a   spanking   sum  of 
money,  Master  Harry.' 

***A  person  could  do  a  great  deal  with  such  a  sum  of 
money  as  that.     Couldn't  a  person,  Cobbs?* 
I  believe  you,  sir! ' 

Cobbs,'  said  the  boy,  'I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  At 
Norah's  house  they  have  been  joking  her  about  me,  and  pre- 
tending to  laugh  at  our  being  engaged.  Pretending  to  make 
game  of  it,  Cobbs ! ' 

***Such,  sir,'  says  Cobbs,  *is  the  depravity  of  human 
natur'.' 

"The  boy,  looking  exactly  like  his  father,  stood  for  a 
few  minutes  with  his  glowing  face  towards  the  sunset,  and 
then  departed  with,  *Good-night,  Cobbs.     I'm  going  in.* 

'*I  was  the  Boots  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn  when  one  sum- 
mer afternoon  the  coach  drives  up,  and  out  of  the  coach  gets 
these  two  children. 

**The  guard  says  to  our  governor,  *I  don't  quite  make 
out  these  little  passengers,  but  the  young  gentleman's  words 
was  that  they  were  to  be  brought  here.'  The  young  gentle- 
man gets  out,  hands  his  lady  out,  gives  the  guard  some- 
thing for  himself,  says  to  our  governor,  'We're  to  stop  here 
to-night,  please.  Sitting  room  and  two  bedrooms  will  be 
required.  Chops  and  cherry-pudding  for  two!'  and  tucks 
her,  in  her  little  sky-blue  mantle,  under  his  arm  and  walks 
into  the  house  much  bolder  than  brass. 

**  Boots  leaves  me  to  judge  what  the  amazement  of  that 
establishment  was  when  those  two  tiny  creatures,  all  alone 


io8 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPIjE 


by  themselves,  was  marched  into  the  Angel — much  more  so 
when  he,  who  had  seen  them  without  their  seeing  him,  give 
the  governor  his  views  of  the  expedition  they  was  upon. 
*Cobbs,*  says  the  governor,  *if  this  is  so,  I  must  set  off  my- 
self to  York  and  quiet  their  friends'  minds.  In  which  case 
you  must  keep  your  eye  upon  'em,  and  humor  'em,  till  I 
come  back.  But  before  I  take  these  measures,  Cobbs,  I 
should  wish  you  to  find  out  from  themselves  whether  your 


••  And  they  laid  down  on  a  bank  of  daisies  and  fell  asleep." 

opinions  is  correct.'     'Sir  to  you,*  says  Cobbs,  *that  shall 
be  done  directly.* 

**So  Boots  goes  up  stairs  to  the  Angel,  and  there  he 
finds  Master  Harry  on  an  enormous  sofa  a-drying  the  eyes 
of  Miss  Norah  with  his  pocket-hankercher.  Their  little  legs 
were  entirely  off  the  ground  of  course,  and  it  really  is  not 
possible  for  Boots  to  express  to  me  how  small  them  children 
looked. 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  109 

"It's  Cobbs!  It's  Cobbs!'  cries  Master  Harry,  and 
comes  running-  to  him,  and  catching  hold  of  his  hand.  Miss 
Norah  comes  running  to  him  on  t'other  side,  and  catching 
hold  of  his  t'other  hand,  and  they  both  jump  for  joy. 

**  *I  see  you  a-getting"  out,  sir,'  says  Cobbs.  *I  thought 
it  was  you.  I  thought  I  couldn't  be  mistaken  in  your  height- 
and  figure.  What's  the  object  of  your  journey,  sir? — mat- 
rimonial?' " 

"  *We  are  going  to  be  married,  Cobbs,  at  Gretna  Green,' 
returned  the  boy.  *We  have  run  away  on  purpose.  Norah 
has  been  in  rather  low  spirits,  Cobbs;  but  she'll  be  happy, 
now  we  have  found  you  to  be  our  friend.' 

*'*  Thank  you,  sir,  and  thsLuk  you ^  miss,'  says  Cobbs, 
*for  your  good  opinion.  Dzd  you  bring  any  lugg"age  with 
you,  sir?' 

**If  I  will  believe  Boots  when  he  g-ives  me  his  word  and 
honor  upon  it,  the  lady  had  got  a  parasol,  a  smelling-bottle, 
a  round  and  a  half  of  cold  buttered  toast,  eight  peppermint 
drops,  and  a  hair-brush — seemingly  a  doll's.  The  gentle- 
man had  got  about  half  a  dozen  yards  of  string,  a  knife, 
three  or  four  sheets  of  writing-paper  folded  up  surprisingly 
small,  an  orange,  and  a  Chaney  mug  with  his  name  upon  it. 

'"What  may  be  the  exact  natur'  of  your  plans,  sir?' 
says  Cobbs. 

"*To  go  on,*  replied  the  boy — which  the  courage  of 
that  boy  was  something  wonderful! — 'in  the  morning,  and 
be  married  to-morrow.' 

"*Just  so,  sir/  says  Cobbs.  'Would  it  meet  your 
views,  sir,  if  I  was  to  accompany  you?' 

"When  Cobbs  said  this  they  both  jumped  for  joy 
again,  and  cried  out,  'Oh,  yes,  yes,  Cobbs!     Yes!' 

'Well,  sir,'  says  Cobbs.      'If  you  will  excuse  my  hav- 


i(  (1 


no  THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE 

ing-  the  freedom  to  give  an  opinion,  what  I  should  recom- 
mend would  be  this.  I'm  acquainted  with  a  pony,  sir, 
which,  put  in  a  phaeton  that  I  could  borrow,  would  take  you 
and  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Jr.  (myself  driving,  if  you  ap- 
prove), to  the  end  of  your  journey  in  a  very  short  space  of 
time.  I  am  not  altogether  sure,  sir,  that  this  pony  will  be 
at  liberty  to-morrow,  but  even  if  you  had  to  wait  over  to- 
morrow for  him  it  might  be  worth  your  while.  As  to  the 
small  account  here,  sir,  in  case  you  was  to  find  yourself  run- 
ning at  all  short,  that  don't  signify,  because  I'm  a  part  pro- 
prietor of  this  inn,  and  it  could  stand  over.* 

"Boots  assures  me  that  when  they  clapped  their  hands 
and  jumped  for  joy  again,  and  called  him  'Good  Cobbs!' 
and  'Dear  Cobbsl'  and  bent  across  him  to  kiss  one  another 
in  the  delight  of  their  confiding  hearts,  he  felt  himself  the 
meanest  rascal  for  deceiving  'em  that  ever  was  born. 

*'  'Is  there  anything  you  want  just  at  present,  sir?*  says 
Cobbs,  mortally  ashamed  of  himself. 

"'We  would  like  some  cakes  after  dinner,*  answered 
Master  Harry,  folding  his  arms,  putting  out  one  leg,  and 
looking  straight  at  him,  'and  two  apples — and  jam.  With 
dinner,  we  should  like  to  have  toast  and  water.  But  Norah 
has  always  been  accustomed  to  half  a  glass  of  currant  wine 
at  dessert.     And  so  have  I.* 

"  'It  shall  be  ordered  at  the  bar,  sir,*  says  Cobbs;  and 
away  he  went. 

"The  way  "in  which  the  women  of  that  house — without 
exception — every  one  of  'em — married  and  single — took  to 
that  boy  when  they  heard  the  story.  Boots  considers  sur- 
prising. It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  'em  from 
dashing  into  the  room  and  kissing  him.  They  climbed  up 
all  sorts  of  places,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  to  look  at  him 


<<  ( 
( (  ( 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  in 

throug-h  a  pane  of  glass.  They  were  seven  deep  at  the  key- 
hole. They  were  out  of  their  minds  about  him  and  his  bold 
spirit. 

"In  the  evening-  Boots  went  into  the  room,  to  see  how 
the  runaway  couple  was  getting  on.  The  gentleman  was  on 
the  window-seat,  supporting  the  lady  in  his  arms.  She  had 
tears  upon  her  face,  and  was  lying,  very  tired  and  half- 
asleep,  with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Jr.,  fatigued,  sir?'  says  Cobbs. 
Yes,  she  is  tired,  Cobbs ;  but  she  is  not  used  to  be 
away  from  home,  and  she  has  been  in  low  spirits  again. 
Cobbs,  do  you  think  you  could  bring  a  biffin,  please?' 

"'I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,'  says  Cobbs.  'What  was 
it  you ' 

*'  'I  think  a  Norfolk  biffin  would  rouse  her,  Cobbs. 
She  is  very  fond  of  them.' 

''Boots  withdrew  in  search  of  the  required  restorative, 
and,  when  he  brought  it  in,  the  gentleman  handed  it  to  the 
lady,  and  fed  her  with  a  spoon,  and  took  a  little  himself. 
The  lady  being  heavy  with  sleep,  and  rather  cross,  'What 
should  you  think,  sir,'  says  Cobbs,  'of  a  chamber  candle- 
stick?' The  gentleman  approved;  the  chambermaid  went 
first,  up  the  great  staircase ;  the  lady,  in  her  sky-blue  mantle, 
followed,  gallantly  escorted  by  the  gentleman;  the  gentleman 
embraced  her  at  the  door,  and  retired  to  his  own  apartment, 
where  Boots  softly  locked  him  up. 

"Boots  couldn't  but  feel  what  a  base  deceiver  he  was 
when  they  asked  him  at  breakfast  (they  had  ordered  sweet 
milk-and-water,  and  toast  and  currant  jelly,  overnight)  about 
the  pony.  It  really  was  as  much  as  he  could  do,  he  don't 
mind  confessing  to  me,  to  look  them  two  young-  things  in 
the  face,  and  think    how   wicked   he    had  grown  up  to  be. 


112 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE 


Howsomever,  he  went  on  a-lying  like  a  Trojan,  about  the 
pon}^  He  told  *em  it  did  so  unfortunately  happen  that  the 
pony  was  half  clipped,  you  see,  and  that  he  couldn't  be 
taken  out  in  that  state  for   fear   that  it  should  strike  to  his 


"The  lady  f  jUowed,  gallantly  escorted  by  the  gentleman." 

inside,  but  that  he'd  be  finished  clipping*  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  and  that  to-morrow  morning-  at  eight  o'clock  the 
phaeton  would  be  ready.  Boots'  view  of  the  whole  case, 
looking-  back  upon  it  in  my  room,  is,  that  Mrs.  Harry 
Walmers,  Jr.,  was  beg-inning-  to  g-ive  in.  She  hadn't  had 
her  hair  curled  when  she  went   to  bed,  and  she  didn't  seem 


<(   I- 
III, 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  ii3 

quite  up  to  brushing  it  herself,  and  it's  getting  in  her  eyes 
put  her  out.  But  nothing  put  out  Master  Harry.  He  sat 
behind  his  breakfast  cup,  a-tearing  away  at  the  jelly,  as  if  he 
had  been  his  own  father. 

"After  breakfast  Boots  is  inclined  to  consider  that  they 
drawed  soldiers — at  least,  he  knows  that  many  such  was 
found  in  the  fireplace,  all  on  horseback.  In  the  course  of 
the  morning  Master  Harry  rang  the  bell — it  was  surprising 
how  that  there  boy  did  carry  on — and  said  in  a  sprightly 
way,  'Cobbs,  is  there  any  good  walks  in  this  neighborhood?' 
'Yes,  sir,'  says  Cobbs.  'There's  Love  Lane.' 
'Get  out  with  you,  Cobbs! ' — that  was  that  there  boy's 
expression — 'yoi-^'re  joking.' 

*' 'Begging  your  pardon,  sir,'  says  Cobbs,  'there  really 
is  Love  Lane.  And  a  pleasant  walk  it  is,  and  proud  I  shall 
be  to  show  it  to  yourself  and    Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Jr.' 

"  'Norah,  dear,'  said  Master  Harry,  'this  is  curious. 
We  really  ought  to  see  Love  Lane.  Put  on  your  bonnet, 
my  sweetest  darling,  and  we  will  go  there  with  Cobbs.' 

"Boots  leaves  me  to  judge  what  a  beast  he  felt  himself  to 
be,  when  that  young  pair  told  him,  as  they  all  three  jogged 
along  together,  that  they  had  made  up  their  minds  to  give  him 
two  thousand  guineas  a  year  as  head-gardener,  on  account 
of  his  being  so  true  a  friend  to  'em.  Boots  could  have 
wished  at  the  moment  that  the  earth  would  have  opened  and 
swallowed  him  up ;  he  felt  so  mean  with  their  beaming  eyes 
a-looking  at  him,  and  believing  him.  Well,  sir,  he  turned 
the  conversation  as  well  as  he  could,  and  he  took  'em  down 
Love  Lane  to  the  water  meadows,  and  there  Master  Harry 
would  have  drowned  himself  in  half  a  moment  more,  a-get- 
ting  out  a  water-lily  for  her— but  nothing  daunted  that  boy. 
Well,  sir,  they  was  tired  out.     All  being  so  new  and  strange 


114  THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE 

to  *em,  they  was  tired  as  tired  could  be.  And  they  laid 
down  on  a  bank  of  daisies,  like  the  children  in  the  wood, 
leastways  meadows,  and  fell  asleep. 

"Well,  sir,  they  woke  up  at  last,  and  then  one  thingf 
was  getting-  pretty  clear  to  Boots,  namely,  that  Mrs.  Harry 
Walmers,  Jr.'s  temper  was  on  the  move.  When  Master 
Harry  took  her  round  the  waist  she  said  he  'teased  her  so,' 
and  when  he  says,  'Norah,  my  young-  May  Moon,  your 
Harry  tease  you?'  she  tells  him,  'Yes;  and  I  want  to 
go  home!' 

"However,  Master  Harry  he  kept  up,  and  his  noble 
heart  was  as  fond  as  ever.  Mrs.  Walmers  turned  very 
sleepy  about  dusk  and  began  to  cry.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
Walmers  went  off  to  bed  as  per  yesterday ;  and  Master 
Harry  ditto  repeated. 

"About  eleven  or  twelve  at  night  comes  back  the 
governor  in  a  chaise,  along  with  Mr.  Walmers  and  an 
elderly  lady.  Mr.  Walmers  looks  amused  and  very 
serious,  both  at  once,  and  says  to  our  missis,  'We  are  very 
much  indebted  to  you,  ma'am,  for  your  kind  care  of  our  little 
children,  which  we  can  never  sufficiently  acknowledge. 
Pray,  ma'am,  where  is  my  boy?'  Our  missis  says,  'Cobbs 
has  the  dear  children  in  charge,  sir.  Cobbs,  show  forty! 
Then  he  says  to  Cobbs,  'Ah,  Cobbs  1  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
I  understood  you  was  here.'  And  Cobbs  says,  'Yes,  sir, 
your  most  obedient,  sir.' 

"I  may  be  surprised  to  hear  Boots  say  it,  perhaps,  but 
Boots  assures  me  that  his  heart  beat  like  a  hammer,  going 
upstairs.  'I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  says  he,  while  unlocking 
the  door;  *I  hope  you  are  not  angry  with  Master  Harry. 
For  Master  Harry  is  a  fine  boy,  sir,  and  will  do  you  credit 
and  honor.'     And  Boots  signifies  to  me  that  if  the  fine  boy's 


il  ( 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  115 

father  had  contradicted  him  in  the  daring-  state  of  mind  in 
which  he  then  was,  he  thinks  he  should  have  'fetched  him  a 
crack,'  and  taken  the  consequences. 

"But  Mr.  Walmers  only  says,  'No,  Cobbs.  No,  my 
good  fellow.  Thank  you.'  And  the  door  beings  open, 
goes  in. 

"Boots  goes  in,  too,  holding-  the  light,  and  he  sees  Mr. 
Walmers  go  up  to  the  bedside,  bend  g-ently  down,  and  kiss 
the  little  sleeping-  face.  Then  he  stands  looking-  at  it  for  a 
minute,  looking-  wonderfully  like  it;  and  then  he  g^ently 
shakes  the  little  shoulder. 

Harry,  my  dear  boy !     Harry !  * 
Master  Harry  starts  up  and  looks  at  him.     Looks  at 
Cobbs,  too.     Such  is  the  honor  of  that  mite  that  he  looks  at 
Cobbs  to  see  whether  he  has  broug-ht  him  into  trouble. 

"  'I  am  not  angry,  my  child.     I  only  want  you  to  dress 
yourself  and  come  home.' 
'Yes,  Pa.' 

Master  Harry  dresses  himself  quickly.  His  breast 
begins  to  swell  when  he  has  nearly  finished,  and  it  swells 
more  and  more  as  he  stands  a-lookingf  at  his  father;  his 
father  standing-  a-looking  at  him,  the  quiet  image  of  him. 

"  'Please  may  I ' — the  spirit  of  that  little  creatur',  and 
the  way  he  kept  his  rising-  tears  down — 'Please,  dear  Pa — 
may  I — kiss  Norah  before  I  g-o?'  I 

'You  may,  my  child.' 

So  he  takes  Master  Harry  in  his  hand,  and  Boots 
leads  the  way  with  the  candle,  and  they  come  to  that  other 
bedroom,  where  the  elderly  lady  is  seated  by  the  bed,  and 
poor  little  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Jr.,  is  fast  asleep.  There  the 
father  lifts  the  child  up  to  the  pillow,  and  he  lays  his  little 
face  down  for  an  instant  by  the  little  warm  face  of  poor  un- 


it <^ 


ii6  THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE 

conscious  little  Mrs.  Hariy  Walmers,  Jr.,  and  gently  draws 
it  to  him — a  sig-ht  so  touching-  to  the  chambermaids  who  are 
peeping-  through  the  door  that  one  of  them  calls  out,  'It's  a 
shame  to  part  'em  !'  But  this  chambermaid  was  always,  as 
Boots  informs  me,  a  soft-hearted  one.  Not  that  there  was 
any  harm  in  that  girl.     Far  from  it." 


Poor  Jo! 


I'ti^,' 


J 


'.^>' 


O  was  a  crossing-sweeper  j 
his  crossing-  was  in  Hoi. 
born,  and  there  every  da}i 
he    swept    up    the    mud,    and 
begged  for  pennies    from    the 
people   who    passed.   Poor  Jo 
wasn't  at  all  pleasant  to  look 
at.    He  wasn't  pretty  and    he 
wasn't  clean.  His  clothes  were 
only  a  few  poor  rags  that  hardly 
protected  him    from   the   cold 
and  the  rain.  He  had  never  been 
to  school,  and  he  could  neither 
write  nor  read — could  not  even 
spell  his  own    name.  He  had 
only   one  name,  Jo,  and  that 
served  him  for  Christian  and 
surname  too. 
Poor  Jo  1   He  was  ugly,  dirty  and  ignorant ;  but  he  knew 
one  thing,  that  it  was  wicked  to  tell  a  lie,  and  knowing-  this, 
ihe  always  told  the  truth.   One  other  thing-  poor  Jo  knew  too 
well,  and  that  was  what  being-  hung-ry  means.   For  little  Jo 
was  very  poor.   He  lived  in  Tom-all- Alones,  one  of  the  most 
horrible  places  in  all  London.     The  road  here  is  thick  with 
mud.  The  crazy  houses  are  dropping-  away ;  two  of  them,  Jo 
remembered,  once  fell  to  pieces.  The  air  one  breathes  here  is 
full  of  fever.  The  people  who  live  in  this  dreadful  den  are  the 
poorest  of  London  poor.  All  miserably  clad,   all  dirty,  all 

117 


JO  AND  THE  BEADLE. 


ii8  POOR   JO! 

very  hungry.  They  know  and  like  Jo,  for  he  is  always  will- 
ing to  g-o  on  errands  for  them,  and  does  them  many  little  acts 
of  kindness.      Not  that  they  speak  of  him  as  Jo. 

Oh,  dear  no  !  No  one  in  Tom-all-Alones  is  spoken  of 
by  his  name,  whether  it  be  his  surname,  or  that  which  his 
godfathers  and  godmothers — always  supposing  that  he  had 
any — gave  him.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  live  in  this 
unfashionable  neighborhood  have  their  fashions  just  as  much 
as  the  great  folks  who  live  in  the  grand  mansions  in  the  West 
End.  Here  one  of  the  prevailing  customs  is  to  give  everyone  a 
nickname.  Thus  it  is  that  if  you  inquired  there  for  a  boy 
named  Jo  you  would  be  asked  whether  you  meant  Carrots,  or 
the  Colonel,  or  Gallows,  or  young  Chisel,  or  Terrier  Tip,  or 
or  Lankey,  the  Brick. 

Jo  was  generally  called  Toughy,  although  a  few  su- 
perior persons  who  gave  themselves  airs  and  graces,  and 
affected  a  dignified  style  of  speaking,  called  him  ''the  tough 
subject." 

Jo  used  to  say  he  had  never  had  but  one  friend. 

It  was  one  cold  winter  night,  when  he  was  shivering  in  a 
doorway  near  his  crossing,  that  a  dark-haired,  rough-bearded 
man  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  then  came  back  and  began  to 
talk  to  him. 

Have  you  a  friend,  boy?"   he  asked  presently. 
No,  never  'ad  none." 

Neither  have  I.  Not  one.  Take  this,  and  good-night," 
and  so  saying  the  man,  who  looked  very  poor  and  shabby, 
put  into  Jo's  hand  the  price  of  a  supper  and  a  night's  lodging. 

Often  afterwards  the  stranger  would  stop  to  talk  with 
Jo,  and  give  him  money,  Jo  firmly  believed,  whenever  he 
had  any  to  give.  When  he  had  none  he  would  merely  say, 
"I  am  as  poor  as  you  are  to-day,  Jo,"  and  pass  on. 


<  i- 

<  (• 


POOR  JO!  119 

One  day  Jo  was  fetched  away  from  his  crossingf  by  the 
Beadle,  and  taken  by  him  to  the  Sol's  Arms,  a  public  house 
in  a  little  court  near  Chancery  Lane,  where  the  Coroner  was 
holding-  an  inquest — an  **inkwich"  Jo  called  it. 

"Did  the  boy  know  the  deceased?"  asked  the  Coroner. 
I  Indeed  Jo  had  known  him ;  it  was  his  only  friend  who 

was  dead.  - 

"He  was  very  good  to  me,  he  was,"  was  all  poor  Jo 
could  say. 

The  next  day  they  buried  the  dead  man  in  the  church- 
yard hard  by  ;  a  churchyard  hemmed  in  by  houses  on  either 
side,  and  separated  by  an  iron  gate  from  the  wretched  court 
through  which  one  goes  to  it. 

But  that  night  there  came  a  slouching  figure  through 
the  court  to  the  iron  gate.  It  held  the  gate  with  both  hands 
and  looked  between  the  bars — stood  looking  in  for  a  little 
while,  then  with  an  old  broom  it  softly  swept  the  step  and 
made  the  archway  clean.  It  was  poor  Jo ;  and  as,  after  one 
more  long  look  through  the  bars  of  the  gate,  he  went  away 
he  .softly  said  to  himself,  "He  was  very  good  to  me,  he 
was." 

Now,  there  happened  to  be  at  the  inquest  a  kind-hearted 
little  man  named  Snagsby,  who  was  a  stationer  by  trade, 
and  he  pitied  Jo  so  much  that  he  gave  him  half  a  crown. 
Half  a  crown  was  Mr.  Snagsby' s  one  remedy  for  all  the 
troubles  of  this  world. 

Jo  was  very  sad  after  the  death  of  his  one  friend.  The 
more  so  as  his  friend  had  died  in  great  poverty  and  misery, 
with  no  one  near  him  to  care  whether  he  lived  or  not. 

It  was  a  few  days  after  the  funeral,  while  Jo  was  still 
living  on  Mr.  Snagsby' s  half  crown — half  a  bill,  Jo  called 
it — that  a  much  bigger  slice  of  good  luck  fell  to  his  share. 


120 


POOR  JO! 


He  was  standing-  at  his  crossing-  as  the  day  closed  in,  when 
a  lady  closely  veiled  and  plainly  dressed  came  up  to  him. 


Asi^ 


JO   AND  HIS   FRIEND. 

"Are  you  the'boy  Jo  who  was  examined  at  the  inquest? 
she  asked. 

'*  That's  me,"  said  Jo. 


POOR  JO! 


121 


<  ( 


<  ( 


( < 


(< 


Come  farther  up  the  court.      I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Wot,  about  him  as  was  dead?  Did  you  know 
him?" 

How  dare  you  ask  me  if  I  knew  him  !  " 

No  offense,  my  lady,"  said  Jo  humbly. 

Listen  and  hold  your  tong-ue.  Show  me  the  place 
where  he  lived,  then  where  he  died,  then  where  they  buried 
him.  Go  in  front  of  me,  don't  look  back  once,  and  I'll  pay 
you  well." 

"I'm  fly,"  said  Jo.  "But 
no  larks,  yer  know.  Stow  hook- 
mg-  it. 

Jo  takes  her  to  each  of  the 
places  she  wants  to  see,  and  he 
notices  that  when  he  shows  her 
the  burying-place  she  shrinks 
into  a  dark  corner  as  if  to  hide 
herself  while  she  looks  at  the 
spot  where  the  dead  man's  body 
rests.  Then  she  draws  off  her 
g-love,  and  Jo  sees  that  she  has 
sparkling-  rings  on  her  fingers. 
She  drops  a  coin  into  his  hand 
and  is  gone.  Jo  holds  the  coin 
to  the  light  and  sees  to  his  joy 
that  it  is  a  golden  sovereig-n. 
He  bites  it  to  make  sure  that  it 

is  g-enuine,  and  being  satisfied  that  it  has  successfully  stood 
the  test  he  puts  it  under  his  tongue  for  safety,  and  g-oes  off 
to  Tom-all-Alones. 

But  people  in  Jo's  position  in  life  find  it  hard  to  chang-e 
.  oovereig-n,  for  who  will  believe  that  they  can  come  by  it 


JO  AT  THE  GATE  OF  THE  CHURCHYARD 
WHERE  THEY  BURIED  HIS  FRIEND. 


132  POOR  JO! 

honestly?    So  poor  little  Jo  didn't  get  much  of  the  sovereign 
for  himself,  for,  as  he  afterwards  told  Mr.  Snagsby — 

*'I  had  to  pay  five  bob  down  in  Tom-all-Alones  before 
they'd  square  it  for  to  give  me  change,  and  then  a  young 
man  he  thieved  another  five  while  I  was  asleep,  and  a  boy 
he  thieved  ninepence,  and  the  landlord  he  stood  drains  round 
with  a  lot  more  of  it." 

And-  so  Jo  was  left  alone  in  the  world  again,  now  his 
friend  was  dead.  And  this  poor  friend  had  only  two 
mourners,  Jo,  the  crossing  sweeper,  and  the  lady  who  had 
come  to  look  at  his  grave. 

Jo  mourned  for  him  because  he  had  been  his  only  friend, 
and  the  lady  mourned  for  the  poor  man  because  she  had 
loved  him  dearly  many  years  ago  when  they  had  both  been 
young  together. 

As  time  went  on  Jo's  troubles  began  in  earnest.  The 
police  turned  him  away  from  his  crossing,  and  wheresoever 
they  met  him  they  ordered  him  to  ''move  on,"  It  was  hard, 
very  hard  on  poor  Jo;  for  he  knew  no  way  of  getting  a  living 
except  at  his  crossing.  So  he  would  go  back  to  it  as  often  as 
he  dared,  until  the  police  turned  him  away  again.  Once  a 
policeman,  angry  to  find  that  Jo  hadn't  moved  on,  seized 
him  by  the  arm  and  dragged  him  down  to  Mr.  Snags  by' s. 
'What's  the  matter,  constable?"  asked  Mr.  Snags  by. 
'This  boy's  as  obstinate  a  young  gonoph  as  I  know; 
although  repeatedly  told  to,  he  won't  move  on." 

"I'm  always  a-moving   on,"  cried    Jo.     "Oh,  my  eye,- 
where  am  I  to  move  to?" 

"My  instructions  don't  go  to  that,"  the  constable 
answered  ;  "my  instructions  are  that  you're  to  keep  moving 
on.  Now  the  simple  question  is,  sir,"  turning  to  Mr. 
Snagsby,  "whether  you  know  him.     He  says  you  do." 


POOR  JO!  123 


Yes,  I  know  him." 

'Very  well,  I  leave  him  here  ;   but  mind  you  keep  mov- 
ing on." 

The  constable  then  moved  on  himself,  leaving-  Jo  at  Mr. 
Snag-sby's.  There  was  a  little  tea  party  there  that  evening, 
and  one  of  the  guests,  a  very  greasy,  oily-looking  man, 
whom  they  called  Mr.  Chadband,  and  who  was  a  dissenting 
minister,  having  by  this  time  eaten  and  drunk  a  great  deal 
more  than  was  good  for  him,  determined  to  improve  the  oc- 
casion by  delivering  a  discourse  on  Jo.  It, was  very  long 
and  very  dull  to  Jo ;  all  he  could  remember  of  the  sermon 
was  this  couplet — 

"Oh  running  stream  of  sparkling  joy, 
To  be  a  soaring  human  boy," 

What  he  remembered  better  was,  when  the  perspiring 
Chadband  had  finished,  and  he  was  at  last  allowed  to  go, 
Mr.  Snagsby  followed  him  to  the  door  and  filled  his  hands 
with  the  remains  of  the  little  feast  they  had  had  up  stairs. 

And  now  Jo  began  to  find  life  rougher  and  harder  than 
ever  He  lost  his  crossing  altogether,  and  spent  day  after 
day  in  moving  on.  He  grew  hungrier  and  thinner,  and  at 
last  the  foul  air  of  Tom-all-Alones  began  to  have  an  ill-effect 
even  on  him — "the  tough  subject."  His  throat  grew  very 
dry,  his  cheeks  were  burning  hot,  and  his  poor  little  head 
ached  till  the  pain  made  him  cry.  Then  he  remembered  a 
poor  woman  he  had  once  done  a  kindness  to,  a  brickmaker's 
wife,  who  had  told  him  she  lived  at  St.  Albans,  and  that  a 
lady  there  had  been  very  good  to  her.  ''Perhaps  she'll  be 
good  to  me,"  thought  Jo,  and  he  started  off  to  go  to  St. 
Albans. 

So  it  came  about  that  one  Saturday  night  Jo  reached 
that   town   very   tired   and   very   ill.      Happily   for  him    the 


124  POOR  JO! 

brickmaker's  wife  met  him  and  took  him  into  her  cottage. 
While  he  was  resting  there  a  lady  came  in. 

The  lady  sat  down  by  the  bed,  and  asked  him  very 
kindly  what  was  the  matter. 

"I'm  a-being  froze  and  then  burnt  up,  and  then  froze 
and  burnt  up  again  ever  so  many  times  over  in  an  hour. 
And  my  head's  all  sleepy,  and  all  a-going  round  like,  and 
I'm  so  dry,  and  my  bones  is  nothing  half  so  much  bones 
as  pain." 

''Where  are  you  going?" 

"Somewheres,"  replied  Jo;  "I'm  a-being  moved  on, 
am. 

"Well,  to-night  you  must  come  with  me,  and  I'll  make 
you  comfortable."  So  Jo  went  with  the  lady  to  a  great 
house  not  far  off,  and  there  in  a  nice  warm  loft  they  made  a 
bed  for  him,  and  brought  him  tempting  wholesome  food, 
every  one  was  very  kind  to  him,  even  the  servants  called 
him  "Old  Chap,"  and  told  him  he  would  soon  be  well. 
Jo  was  really  happy,  and  for  a  time  forgot  his  pain  and 
fever.  But  something  frightened  Jo,  and  he  felt  he' could 
not  stay  there,  and  he  ran  out  into  the  cold  night-air.  Where 
he  went  he  could  never  remember,  for  when  he  next  came  to 
his  senses  he  found  himself  in  a  hospital.  He  stayed  there 
for  some  weeks  and  was  then  discharged,  though  still  weak 
and  ill.  He  was  very  thin,  and  when  he  drew  a  breath  his 
chest  was  very  painful.  "It  draws,"  said  Jo, "as  heavy  as 
a  cart."  Now  a  certain  young  doctor  by  the  name  of  Allan 
Woodcourt,  rather  than  count  the  hours  on  a  restless  pillow, 
takes  a  stroll  on  Tom-all- Alones  one  morning.  The  banks 
of  a  stagnant  channel  of  mud  is  the  main  street  of  Tom-all- 
Alones ;  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  the  crazy  houses,  shut  up 
and  silent.     No  wakino;  creature    save  himself  appears,  ex- 


POOR   JO! 


125 


cept  in  one  direction,  where  he 
woman  sitting-  on  a  doorstep, 
proaching-,  he  ob- 
she  has  journeyed 
tance,  and  is  foot- 
travel  -  stained, 
the  doorstep  in  the 
one  who  is  wait- 
elbow  on  her  knee 
upon  her  hand. 
is  a  canvas  bag", 
she  has  carried, 
ing  probably,  for 
heed  to  his  steps 
towards  her. 

The     broken 
narrow  that,  when 


sees  the  solitary  figure  of  a 
He  walks  that  way.     Ap- 

serves  that 
a  long  dis- 
sore  and 
She  sits  on 
manner  of 
ing,  with  her 
and  her  head 
Beside  her 
or  bundle, 
She  is  doz- 
she  g-ives  no 
as  he  comes 


0    -  -->•,„'»:.-_. 

"    c    t-^v    ?       •        ^ 

^ 

'    ^          ^jf         V            V    -^ 

"  > 

'"  y 

'^rf  - 

*"<^^- 

<* 

■^^    ■>!->, 

•v    ^ 

■j-<t 

;> 

5l.>--i.  ?, 

J^ 

i 

i\: ""- 

— *i  i-  — ^t->-= 

^^^^^^6 

^2r7^ 

*''*■'*'; 

X-,  "^^S; 

t    '  i    J-'^^ 

L,              -"           "^ 

^  M 

-^H!f^  *- 

'-  » 

'V      " 

"'^^3 

foot  way  is  so 
the   doctor 


POOR  JO,    THE  CROSSING  SWEEPER. 


comes  to  where  the  woman  sits,  he  has  to  turn  into  the  road 
to  pass  her.  Looking-  down  at  her  face  his  eye  meets  hers, 
and  he  stops. 


126  POOR  JO! 


What  is  the  matter?" 
"  Nothing-,  sir." 

**Can't  you  make  them  hear?    Do  you  want  to  be  let  in?" 
"I'm  waiting-  till  they  get  up  at  another  house — a  lodg- 
ing house — not  here,"  the  woman  patiently  returns.      "I'm 
waiting  here  because    there   will    be    sun  here  presently  to 


warm  me. 


I  am  afraid  you  are  tired.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  sit- 
ting in  the  street." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     It  don't  matter." 

"I  suppose  you  have  some  settled  home?  Is  it  far 
from  here?"  he  asks,  good-humoredly  making  light  of  what 
he  has  done,  as  she  gets  up  and  courtesies. 

"It's  a  g-ood  two  or  three-and-twenty  mile  from  here, 
sir.  At  Saint  Albans.  Do  you  know  St.  Albans,  sir?  I 
thought  you  gave  a  start  like  as  if  you  did." 

"Yes,  I  know  something  of  it.  And  now  I  will  ask 
you  a  question  in  return.  Have  you  money  for  your 
lodg-ing?" 

Yes,  sir,"  she  says,  "really  and  truly."  And  she 
shows  it.  He  tells  her,  in  acknowledgment  of  her  many 
subdued  thanks,  that  she  is  very  welcome,  gives  her  g-ood- 
day,  and  walks  away.  Tom-all-Alones  is  still  asleep,  and 
nothing  is  astir. 

Yes,  something  is!  As  he  retraces  his  way  to  the 
point  from  which  he  saw  the  woman  at  a  distance  sitting  on 
the  step  he  sees  a  ragged  figure  coming  very  carefully  along, 
crouching  close  to  the  soiled  walls — which  the  wretchedest 
figure  might  as  well  avoid — and  thrusting  a  hand  before  it. 
It  is  the  figure  of  a  boy,  whose  face  is  hollow,  and  whose 
eyes  have  an  emaciated  glare.  He  is  so  intent  on  getting 
along    unseen    that    even    the"    appearance    of   a   stranger 


POOR  JO!  127 

in  whole  g-arments  does  not  tempt  him  to  look  back. 
He  shades  his  face  with  his  ragged  elbow  as  he  passes 
on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  and  goes  shrinking  and 
creeping  on,  with  his  anxious  hand  before  him,  and  his 
shapeless  clothes  hanging  in  shreds.  Clothes  made  for 
what  purpose,  or  of  what  material,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
say.  They  look,  in  color  and  in  substance,  like  a  bundle  of 
rank  leaves  of  swampy  growth  that  rotted  long  ago. 

Allan  Woodcourt  pauses  to  look  after  h^m  and  note  all 
this,  with  a  shadowy  belief  that  he  has  seen  the  boy  before. 
He  cannot  recall  how,  or  where ;  but  there  is  some  associa- 
tion in  his  mind  with  such  a  form.  He  imagines  that  he 
must  have  seen  it  in  some  hospital  or  refuge;  still,  cannot 
make  out  why  it  comes  with  any  special  force  on  his  remem- 
brance. 

He  is  gradually  emerging  from  Tom-all-Alones  in  the 
morning  light,  thinking  about  it,  when  he  hears  running  feet 
behind  him ;  and  looking  round  sees  the  boy  scouring  to- 
wards him  at  great  speed,  followed  by  the  woman. 

**  Stop  him,  stop  him!  "  cries  the  woman  almost  breath- 
less.    ''Stop  him,  sir!'! 

He  darts  across  the  road  into  the  boy's  path,  but  the 
boy  is  quicker  than  he — makes  a  curve — ducks — -dives  under 
his  hands — comes  up  half-a-dozen  yards  beyond  him,  and 
scours  away  again.  Still  the  woman  follows,  crying, 
''Stop  him,  sir;  pray  stop  him!"  Allan,  not  knowing  but 
that  he  has  just  robbed  her  of  her  money,  follows  in  chase, 
and  runs  so  hard  that  he  runs  the  boy  down  nearly  a  dozen 
times ;  but  each  time  he  repeats  the  curve,  the  duck,  the  dive, 
and  scours  away  again.  To  strike  at  him,  on  any  of  these 
occasions,  would  be  to  fell  and  disable  him ;  but  the  pur- 
suer  cannot  resolve  to  do  that ;     and  so   the  grimly  ridic- 


<  ( 


128  POOR  JO! 

ulous  pursuit  continues.  At  last  the  fug-itive,  hard-pressed, 
takes  to  a  narrow  passage  and  a  court  which  has  no 
thoroughfare.  Here,  against  a  hoarding  of  decaying  timber, 
he  is  brought  to  bay,  and  tumbles  down,  lying  gasping  at 
his  pursuer,  who  stands  and  gasps  at  him  until  the  woman 
comes  up. 

"O  you  Jo!"  cries  the  woman.  ''What?  I  have 
found  you  at  last!  " 

Jo,"    repeats    Allan,   looking  at  him  with    attention. 
Jo!    Stay.     To  be  sure!      I  recollect  this  lad  some  time 
ago  being  brought  before  the  Coroner." 

"Yes,  I  see  you  once  afore  at  the  inkwich,"  whimpers 
Jo.  "What  of  that?  Can't  you  never  let  such  an  unfortnet 
as  me  alone?  Ain't  I  unfortnet  enough  for  you  yet?  How 
unfortnet  do  you  want  me  fur  to  be?  I've  been  a-chivied 
and  a-chivied,  fust  by  one  on  you  and  nixt  by  another  on 
you,  till  I'm  worrited  to  skins  and  bones.  The  inkwich 
warn't  my  fault.  /  done  nothink.  He  wos  wery  good  to 
me,  he  wos ;  he  wos  the  only  one  I  knowed  to  speak  to,  as 
ever  come  across  my  crossing.  It  ain't  wery  likely  I  should 
want  him  to  be  inkwiched.  I  only  wish  I  wos,  myself.  I 
don't  know  why  I  don  t  go  and  make  a  hole  in  the  water, 
I'm  sure  I  don't." 

He  says  it  with  such  a  pitiable  air,  and  his  grimy  tears 
appear  so  real,  and  he  lies  in  the  corner  up  againsf  the 
hoarding  so  like  a  growth  of  fungus,  or  any  unwholesome  ex- 
crescence produced  there  in  neglect  and  impurity,  that  Allan 
Woodcourt  is  softened  towards  him.  He  says  to  the  woman, 
"  Miserable  creature,  what  has  he  done?" 

To  which  she  only  replies,  shaking  her  head  at  the 
prostrate  figure  more  amazedly  than  angrily:  "O  you  Jo, 
you  Jo.     I  have  found  you  at  last!  " 


(( 


POOR  jor  129 

What  has  he  done?"  says  Allan.  "Has  he  robbed 
you?^'^'  ' 

"No,  sir,  no.  Robbed  me?  He  did  nothing-  but  what 
was  kind-hearted  by  me,  and  that's  the  wonder  of  it." 

Allan  looks  from  Jo  to  the  woman,  and  from  the  woman 
to  Jo,  waiting  for  one  of  them  to  unravel  the  riddle. 

"  But  he  was  along-  with  me,  sir,"  says  the  woman — 
"O  you  Jo! — he  was  along  with  me,  sir,  down  at  Saint 
Albans,  ill,  and  a  young-  lady.  Lord  bless  her  for  a  good 
friend  to  me,  took  pity  on  him  when  I  durstn't,  and  took 
him  home — " 

Allan  shrinks  back  from  him  with  a  sudden  horror. 

"Yes,  sir,  yes.  Took  him  home,  and  made  him  com- 
fortable, and  like  a  thankless  monster  he  ran  away  in  the 
night,  and  never  has  been  seen  or  heard  of  since,  till  I  set 
eyes  on  him  just  now.  And  that  young.lady  that  was  such 
a  pretty  dear  caught  his  illness,  lost  her  beautiful  looks,  and 
wouldn't  hardly  be  known  for  the  same  young  lady  now,  if 
it  wasn't  for  her  angel  temper,  and  her  pretty  shape,  and  her 
sweet  voice.  Do  you  know  it?  You  ungrateful  wretch,  do 
you  know  that  this  is  all  along  of  you  and  of  her  goodness 
to  you?"  demands  the  woman,  beginning  to  rage  at  him 
as  she  recalls  it,  and  breaking  into  passionate  tears. 

The  boy,  in  rough  sort  stunned  by  what  he  hears,  falls 
to  smearing  his  dirty  forehead  with  his  dirty  palm,  and  to 
staring  at  the  ground,  and  to  shaking  from  head  to  foot 
until  the  hoarding  against  which  he  leans  rattles. 

Allan  restrains  the  woman,  merely  by  a  quiet  gesture, 
but  effectually. 

"  You  hear  what  she  says.     But  get  up,  get  up  !  " 

Jo,  shaking  and  chattering,  slowly  rises,  and  stands, 
after  the  manner  of  his  tribe  in  a  difficulty,  sideways  against 

g 


I30  POOR   JOT 

the  hoarding,  resting-  one  of  his  high  shoulders  against  it, 
and  covertly  rubbing  his  right  hand  over  his  left,  and  his 
left  foot  over  his  right. 

"You  hear  what  she  says,  and  I  know  it's  true.  Have 
you  been  here  ever  since?" 

*' Wishermaydie  if  I  seen  Tom-all-Alones  till  this  bless- 
ed morning,"  replies  Jo,  hoarsely. 

"Why  have  you  come  here  now?" 

Jo  looks  all  around  the  confined  court,  looks  at  his  ques- 
tioner no  higher  than  the  knees,  and  finally  answers : 

"I  don't  know  how  to  do  nothink,  and  I  can't  get  no- 
think  to  do.  I'm  wery  poor  and  ill,  and  I  thought  I'd  come 
back  here  when  there  warn't  nobody  about,  and  lay  down 
and  hide  somewheres  as  I  knows  on  till  arter  dark,  and  then 
go  and  beg  a  trifle  of  Mr.  Snagsby.  He  was  alius  willin'  for 
give  me  somethink,  he  wos,  though  Mrs.  Snagsby  she  wos 
alius  a-chivying  on  me — like  everybody  everywheres.  " 

"Where  have  you  come  from?" 

Jo  looks  all  around  the  court  again,  looks  at  his  ques- 
tioner's knees  again,  and  concludes  by  laying  his  profile 
against  the  hoarding  in  a  sort  of  resignation. 

Did  you  hear  me  ask  you  where  you  have  come  from  ?" 
'Tramp  then,"  says  Jo. 

"Now,  tell  me,"  proceeds  Allan,  making  a  strong  effort 
to  overcome  his  repugnance,  going  very  near  to  him,  and 
leaning  over  him  with  an  expression  of  confidence,  "tell  me 
how  it  came  about  that  you  left  that  house,  when  the  good 
young  lady  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  pity  you,  and  take 
you  home." 

Jo  suddenly  comes  out  of  his  resignation,  and  excitedly 
declares,  addressing  the  woman,  that  he  never  known  about 
the  young  lady,  that  he  never  heern  about  it,  that  he   never 


9& 


POOR   JO!  131 

went  fur  to  hurt  her,  that  he  would  sooner  have  hurt  his  own 
self,  that  he'd  sooner  have  had  his  unfortnet  'ead  chopped 
off  than  ever  g-one  a-nig-h  her,  and  that  she  wos  very  good  to 
him,  she  wos.  Conducting  himself  throughout  as  if  in  his 
poor  fashion  he  really  meant  it  and  winding-  up  with  some 
very  miserable  sobs. 

Allan  Woodcourt  sees  that  this  is  not  a  sham.  He 
constrains  himself  to  touch  him.      ''Come,  Jo.     Tell  me?" 

"No.  I  dustn't"  says  Jo,  relapsing-  into  the  profile 
state.     '*I  dustn't,  or  I  would." 

"But  I  must  know,"  returns  the  other,  "all  the  same. 
Come,  Jo," 

After  two  or  three  such  adjurations,  Jo  lifts  up  his  head 
agfain,  looks  round  the  court  again,  and  says  in  a  low  voice, 
"Well,  I'll  tell  you  somethink.     I  was  took  away.     There!" 

"Took  away?     In  the  night?" 

"Ah!"  Fearful  of  being  overheard,  Jo  looks  about 
him,  and  even  glances  up  some  ten  feet  at  the  top  of  the 
hoarding,  and  through  the  cracks  in  it,  lest  the  object  of  his 
distrust  should  be  looking  over,  or  hidden  on  the  other  side. 
Who  took  you  away?  " 

I  dustn't  name  him,"  says  Jo.      "  I  dustn't  do  it,  sir." 
But  I  want,  in  the  young  lady's  name,  to  know.     You 
may  trust  me.     No  one  else  shall  hear." 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  know,"  replies  Jo,  shaking  his  head* 
fearfully,  "as  he  dont  hear." 

"Why,  he  is  not  in  this  place." 

"Oh,  ain't  he  though?"  says  Jo.  "  He's  in  all  manner 
of  places,  all  at  wunst." 

Allan  looks  at  him  in  perplexity,  but  discovers  some 
real  meaning  and  good  faith  at  the  bottom  of  this  bewilder- 
ing reply.     He  patiently  awaits  an  answer;     and  Jo,  more 


<  < 


<  < 


132  POOR  JO! 

baffled  by  his  patience  than  by  anything-  else,   at  last  des. 
perately  whispers  a  name  in  his  ear. 

*  *  Ay  !  ' '  says  Allan.     '  *  Why,  what  had  you  been  doing  ?  ' ' 

"  Nothink,  sir,  Never  done  nothink  to  g-et  myself  into 
no  trouble,  'sept  in  not  moving  on  and  the  inkwich.  But 
I'm  a-moving-  on  now.  I'm  a-moving-  on  to  the  berryin 
ground — that's  the  move  as  I'm  up  to." 

"  No,  no,  we  will  try  to  prevent  that.  But  what  did  he 
do  with  you?" 

"  Put  me  in  a  horsepittle,"  replied  Jo,  whispering,  "  till 
I  was  discharg-ed,  then  g^iv'  me  a  little  money — four  half- 
bulls,  wot  you  may  call  half-crowns — and  ses  '  Hook  it ! 
Nobody  wants  you  here,'  he  ses.  'You  hook  it.  You  g-o 
and  tramp,'  he  ses.  'You  move  on,'  he  ses.  *  Don't  let  me 
ever  see  you  nowheres  within  forty  miles  of  London,  or  you'll 
repent  it.'  So  I  shall,  if  ever  he  does  see  me,  and  he'll  see 
me  if  I'm  above  g^round,"  concludes  Jo,  nervously  repeating* 
all  his  former  precautions  and  investig^ations. 

Allan  considers  a  little;  then  says,  turning  to  the 
woman,  but  keeping-  an  encourag-ing  eye  on  Jo:  "  He  is  not 
so  ung-rateful  as  you  supposed.  He  had  a  reason  for  going" 
away,  though  it  was  an  insufficient  one." 

''Thank'ee,  sir,  thank'ee!"  exclaims  Jo.  ''There  now! 
See  how  hard  you  wos  upon  me.  But  only  you  tell  the 
young  lady  wot  the  genlmn  ses,  and  it's  all  right.  For  you 
wos  wery  good  to  me,  too,  and  I  knows  it." 

Now,  Jo,"  says  Allan,  keeping  his  eye  upon  him, 
come  with  me,  and  I  will  find  you  a  better  place  than  this 
to  lie  down  and  hide  in.^  If  I  take  one  side  of  the  way  and 
you  the  other,  to  avoid  observation,  you  will  not  '  hook  it,' 
I  know  very  well,  if  you  make  me  a  promise." 

''  I  v/on't  not  unless  I  was  to  see  /nm  a-coming,  sir." 


<  ( 


POOR  jor  133 


it 


Very  well.  I  take  your  word.  Half  the  town  is 
getting-  up  by  this  time,  and  the  whole  town  will  be  broad 
awake  in  another  hour.  Come  alongf.  Good-day  again,  my 
good  woman." 

So  Jo  was  taken  to  a  clean  little  room,  and  bathed,  and 
had  clean  clothes,  and  good  food,  and  kind  people  about 
him  once  more,  but  he  was  too  ill  now,  far  too  ill,  for  any- 
thing to  do  him  any  good. 

**  Let  me  lie  here  quiet,"  said  poor  Jo,  "  and  be  so  kind 
anyone  as  is  passin'  nigh  where  I  used  to  sweep,  as  to  say 
to  Mr.  Snagsby  as  Jo,  wot  he  knew  once,  is  a-moving  on." 

One  day  the  young  doctor  was  sitting  by  him,  when 
suddenly  Jo  made  a  strong  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 

"Well,  Jo"  what  is  the  matter?  "Don't  be  frightened." 

**I  thought,"  says  Jo,  who  has  started  and  is  looking 
round,  "I  thought  I  was  in  Tom-all- Alones  again.  An't 
there  nobody  here  but  you,  Mr.  Woodcourt?" 

"Nobody." 

"And  I  an't  took  back  to  Tom-all- Alones.    Am  I,  sir?" 

"No."  Jo  closes  his  eyes,  muttering,  "I'm  wery 
thankful." 

After  watching  him  closely  a  little  while,  Allan  puts  his 
mouth  very  near  his  ear,  and  says  to  him  in  a  low,  distinct 
voice : 

"Jo!     Did  you  ever  know  a  prayer?" 

"Never  know'd  nothink,  sir." 

"  Not  so  much  as  one  short  prayer?" 

"No,  sir.  Nothink  at  all.  Mr.  Chadbands  he  wos 
a-prayin'  wunst  at  Mr.  Snagsby' s  and  I  heerd  him,  but  he 
sounded  as  if  he  was  a-speakin'  to  his-self,  and  not  to  me. 
He  prayed  a  lot,  but  /  couldn't  make  out  nothink  on  it. 
Different  times  there  wos  other  genlmen  come  down  Tom- 


(( 


l< 


134  POOR  JO! 

all-Aloncs  a-prayin*,  but  they  all  mostly  sed  as  the  t'other 
wuns  prayed  wrong-,  and  all  mostly  sounded  to  be  a-talking 
to  their-selves,  or  a  passing-  blame  on  the  t' others,  and  not 
a-talkin*  to  us.  IVe  never  know'd  nothink.  /  never  know'd 
what  it  wos  all  about." 

It  takes  him  a  long  time  to  say  this ;  and  few  but  an 
experienced  and  attentive  listener  could  hear,  or,  hearing,  un-' 
derstand  him.  After  a  short  relapse  into  sleep  or  stupor,  he 
makes,  of  a  sudden,  a  strong  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 

Stay,  Jo,  stay!     What  now?" 

It's  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin'  ground,  sir,'' 
he  returns  with  a  wild  look. 

Lie  down,  and  tell  me.     What  burying  ground,  Jo?" 

Where  they  laid  him  as  wos  wery  good  to  me,  wery 
good  to  me  indeed,  he  wos.  It's  time  for  me  to  go  down  to 
that  there  berryin'  ground,  sir,  and  ask  to  be  put  along  with 
him.  I  wants  to  go  there  and  be  berried.  He  used  fur  to 
say  to  me,  *I  am  as  poor  as  you  to-day,  Jo,'  he  ses.  I 
wants  to  tell  him  that  I  am  as  poor  as  him  now,  and  have 
come  there  to  be  laid  along  with  him." 

By-and-by,  Jo.     By-and-by." 

'Ah!  P'r'aps  they  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  wos  to  go  myself. 
But  will  you  promise  to  have  me  took  there,  sir,  and  laid 
along  with  him?" 

I  will,  indeed." 

'Thank'ee,  sir.  Thank'ee,  sir!  They'll  have  to  get  the 
key  of  the  gate  afore  they  can  take  me  in,  for  it's  alius  locked. 
And  there's  a  step  there,  as  I  used  fur  to  clean  with  my  broom. 
It's  turned  wery  dark,  sir.     Is  there  any  light  a-comin'?" 
**  It  is  coming  fast,  Jo." 

Fast.  The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and  the  rugged 
road  is  very  near  its  end. 


ft 


POOR  JO!  135 


Jo,  my  poor  fellow!  ** 

I  hear  you,  sir,  in  the  dark,  but  Fm  a-gropin' — -a-gropin' 
—let  me  catch  hold  of  your  hand." 
**  Jo,  can  you  say  what  I  say?" 

**  I'll  say  anythink  as  you  say,  sir,  for  I  knows  it's  good." 
**OuR  Father." 

**Our  Father! — yes,  that's  wery  good,  sir!" 
"Which  art  in  heaven." 

'Art  in  Heaven — is  the  light  a-comin',  sir?" 
It  is  close  at  hand.     Hallowed  be  Thy  name." 
Hallowed  be — Thy— name!" 
The  light  is  come  upon  the  dark,  benighted  way.     Dead! 
Dead,  your  majesty.     Dead,  my  lords  and  gentlemen. 
Dead,  Right  Reverends   and   Wrong   Reverends   of   every 
order.     Dead,  men  and  women  born  with  heavenly  compas- 
sion in  your  hearts.     And  dying  thus  around  us  every  day! 


The  Little  Kenwigs. 


WHAT  an  odd- 
lookingfam- 
ily !       What 
are  they  all  in  such 
distress  about? 

This  is  Mrs.  Ken- 
wig-s,  and  those 
funny  little  g-irls  are 
her  daug-hters;  and 
we  shall  see  pres- 
ently what  is  the 
cause  of  their  grief. 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  was  the  wife  of  an  ivory  turner,  and 
though  they  only  had  a  very  humble  home  of  two  rooms  in  a 
dingy-looking  house  in  a  small  street,  they  had  great  preten- 
sions to  being  ''genteel,"  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs  was  the  admira- 
tion of  all  the  neighbors.  The  little  Misses  Kenwigs  had 
their  flaxen  hair  plaited  into  pig-tails  and  tied  with  blue 
ribbons,  and  wore  little  white  trousers  with  frills  round  their 
ankles,  the  highest  fashion  of  that  day ;  besides  being  dressed 
with  such  elegance,  the  two  eldest  girls  went  twice  a  week  to 
a  dancing  school.  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  too,  had  an  uncle  who 
collected  the  water-rate,  and  she  was  therefore  considered  a 
person  of  great  distinction,  with  quite  the  manners  of  a  lady. 
Now,  it  happened  that  on  the  eighth  anniversary  of  their 
wedding-day  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs  decided  to  invite  a  party 

of  friends  to  supper  to  celebrate  the   occasion.     The   four 
136 


THE  LITTLE  KENWIGS  I37 

eldest  children  were  to  be  allowed  to  sit  up  to  supper,  and 
the  uncle,  Mr.  Lillyvick,  the  collector,  had  promised  to  come. 
The  baby  was  put  to  bed  in  a  little  room  lent  by  one  of  the 
lady  guests,  and  a  little  girl  hired  to  watch  him,  and  Mrs. 
Kenwig-s,  in  a  beautiful  new  gown,  received  her  visitors  in 
great  state.  All  the  company  had  assembled  when  a  ring 
was  heard,  and  Morleena,  whose  name  had  been  invented  by 
Mrs,  Kenwigs  especially  for  her,  ran  down  to  open  the  door 
and  lead  in  her  distinguished  great-uncle,  then  the  supper 
was  brought  in  and  the  party  commenced. 

The  supper  consisted  of  a  pair  of  boiled  fowls,  a  large 
piece  of  pork,  potatoes  and  greens,  and  an  apple-pie,  which 
they  all  enjoyed  amazingly. 

Everybody  had  eaten  everything,  the  table  was  cleared, 
Mr.  Lillyvick  established  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  fireside, 
the  four  little  girls  arranged  on  a  small  form  in  front  of 
the  company  with  their  flaxen  tails  toward  them,  when 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  was  suddenly  dissolved  in  tears  and  sobbed 
out — 

"They  are  so  beautiful!  " 

"Oh  dear,"  said  all  the  ladies,  "so  they  are;  it's  very 
natural  you  should  feel  proud  of  that;  but  don't  give  way, 
don't." 

''I  can — not  help  it,  and  it  don't  signify,"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Kenwigs;  "oh!  they're  too  beautiful  to  live,  much  too  beau- 
tiful." 

On  hearing  this  dismal  prophecy  all  four  little  girls 
screamed  until  their  light  flaxen  tails  vibrated  again,  and 
rushed  to  bury  their  heads  in  their  mother's  lap,  and  she 
clasped  them  in  her  arms. 

At  length  she  was  soothed  and  the  children  calmed 
down;  while  the  ladies  and   gentlemen  all  said  they  were 


I3S  THE  LITTLE  KEN  WIGS 

sure  they  would  live  for  many,  many  years,  and  there  was 
no  occasion  for  their  mother's  distress;  and  as  the  children 
were  not  so  remarkably  lovely,  this  was  quite  true. 

Then  Mr.  Lillyvick  talked  to  the  company  about  his 
niece's  marriage,  and  said  graciously  that  he  had  always 
found  Mr.  Kenwig-s  a  very  honest,  well-behaved,  upright, 
and  respectable  sort  of  man,  and  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  then  Morleena  and  her  sisters  kissed  their  uncle  and 
most  of  the  guests. 

Then  Miss  Petowker,  who  was  the  daughter  of  a  theat- 
rical fireman,  who  went  on  in  the  pantomime,  and  who  could 
sing  and  recite  in  a  way  that  brought  tears  to  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs'  eyes,  remarked — 

*'Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  while  Mr.  Noggs  is  making 
that  punch  to  drink  happy  returns  in,  do  let  Morleena  go 
through  that  figure  dance  before  Mr.  Lillyvick." 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  "it  will  only 
worry  my  uncle." 

"It  can't  worry  him,   I'm  sure,"  said  Miss  Petowker. 
You  will  be  very  much  pleased,  won't  you,  sir?" 

That  I  am  sure  I  shall,"  replied  the  collector,  glanc- 
ing at  the  punch  mixer. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs. 
"Morleena  shall  do  the  steps  if  uncle  can  persuade  Miss 
Petowker  to  recite  us  the  'Blood-drinker's  Burial'  after- 
wards." 

Everyone  clapped  their  hands  and  stamped  their  feet  at 
this  proposal,  but  Miss  Petowker  said,  "You  know  I  dislike 
doing  anything  professional  at  private  parties." 

"Oh  but  not  here !  "  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs.  "We  are  all  so 
very  friendly  and  pleasant  that  you  might  as  well  be  going 
through  it  in  your  own  room — besides  the  occasion." 


"  YO 


THE  LITTLE  KEN  WIGS  i39 

"I  can't  resist  that,"  interrupted  Miss  Petowker,  "any- 
thing- in  my  humble  power  I  shall  be  deligrhted  to  do." 

In  reality  Mrs.  Kenwig-s  and  Miss  Petowker  had 
arranged  all  the  entertainment  between  them  beforehand,  but 
had  settled  that  a  little  pressing*  on  each  side  would  look 
more  natural.  Then  Miss  Petowker  hummed  a  tune,  and 
Morleena  danced,  the  soles  of  her  shoes  being  as  carefully 
chalked  as  if  she  were  going  on  the  tig^ht  rope.  It  was  a 
very  beautiful  figure  with  a  great  deal  of  work  for  the  arms, 
and  gained  much  applause;  and  Miss  Petowker  observed 
that  if  she  had  such  a  child  as  that  she  would  have  her  out 
at  the  opera  instantly.  Then  Miss  Petowker  was  entreated 
to  begin  her  recitation,  so  she  let  down  her  back  hair,  and 
went  through  the  performance  with  great  spirit,  and  died 
raving  mad  in  the  arms  of  a  bachelor  friend  who  was  to  rush 
out  and  catch  her  at  the  words  ''in  death  expire,"  to  the 
g-reat  delight  of  the  audience  and  the  terror  of  the  little 
Kenwigses,  who  were  nearly  frightened  into  fits. 

Mr.  Noggs  was  just  going  to  say  that  the  punch  was 
ready,  when  a  knock  at  the  door  startled  them  all.  Mrs. 
Kenwigs  shrieked,  thinking  the  baby  had  fallen  out  of  bed. 

But  it  was  only  a  friend  of  Mr.  Nog-gs,  who  lived  •up- 
stairs, and  who  had  come  down  to  say  that  Mr.  Noggs  was 
wanted  by  two  queer-looking  people  all  covered  with  mud 
and  rain. 

Mr.  Noggs  hurried  out,  saying  he  would  be  back  soon, 
and  presently  startled  them  all  by  rushing  in,  snatching 
up  a  candle  and  a  tumbler  of  hot  punch,  and  darting  out 
again. 

Now,  it  happened  unfortunately  that  the  tumbler  of 
punch  was  the  very  one  that  Mr.  Lillyvick  was  just  going  to 
lift  to  his  lips,  and  the  great    man — the   rich  relation — who 


!#) 


THE  LITTLE  KENWIGS 


had  it  in  his  power  to  make  Morleena  and  her  sisters  heiresses 
— and  whom  everyone  was  most  anxious  to  please — was 
offended. 

Poor  Mr.  Kenwig-s  endeavored  to  soothe  him,  but  only 
made  matters  worse  by  saying^  he  didn't  think  such  a  little 


THE  LITTLE  KENWiaST  t^t 

thingf  would  have  put  him  Mit  cdf  tempfcr ;  Mr:  LillyviCk  de- 
manded his  hat,  and  was  ©nly  iiiduded  to  remain  by  Mrs.' 
Kenwig-s'  tears  and  sobs,  -and  the  i entreaties  of  all  the  little, 
gfirls  and  the  company,  combined  with  tho^^of -hisidepliew^^ 
in-law.  iij  lavo  ba^lki  Ub  h^d  -^yrU  iol\A 

''There,  Kenwig-s,"  said  Mrl  LiUyiwr^kj  J'aMl€lfe3iftm/$ell> 
you,  to  show  you  how  much^outuof  temper  I  Was,:^thaM^ll 
had  gone  away  without  another  word  it  would  hav€l  ad^de^ 
no  difference  respecting  '  that;  pound   or  ut^o  iwljich  I  shall 
leave  among  your  children  wheal-  die.i'/  ^niifibab  ,3V£Di  ^^>oj 

"Morleena  Kenwigs,''  criedi  :her  /mbtherji^fgro  dowtF^tr* 
your  knees  to  your  dear  uncle^  and  beg  him  to -Ibyeydu  ali- 
bis life  through;  for  he's  mor^  an  san^el  than  a  man  and' 
I've  always  said  so."  rlJ  ,vii£q  ihrh  lo  ^^o^^u■d  odi  dftw 

Just  as  all  were  happy ''aij^aife^^'^^erydnei  ^^^a^' ^tantlddlby- 
a  rapid  succession  of  the  loudest   and   shriliestt  i1iriete»/i^p^ 
parently  coming  from  the  room  where  the  baby  was  asleep. 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  immediately  thought  that  a  strange  cat  must 
must  have  got  in  and  sucked    the    baby's  breath  while  the 
girl  was  asleep,  and  made  for  the  door,  screaming  dismally — 

"My  baby,  my  blessed,  blessed,  blessed,  blessed  baby! 
My  own  darling,  sweet,  innocent  Lillyvick !  Let  me 
go-o-o-o." 

Mr.  Kenwigs  rushed  out,  and  was  met  at  the  door  of 
the  bedroom  by  a  young-  man  with  the  baby  (upside  down) 
in  his  arms,  who  came  out  so  quickly  that  he  knocked  Mr. 
Kenwigs  down ;  handing  the  child  to  his  mother,  he  said, 
"Don't  be  alarmed,  it's  all  out,  it's  all  over — the  little  girl, 
being  tired,  I  suppose,  fell  asleep  and  set  her  hair  on  fire. 
|I  heard  her  cries  and  ran  up  in  time  to  prevent  her  setting 
ifire  to  anything  else.  The  child  is  not  hurt ;  I  took  it  off  the 
bed  myself  and  brought  it  here  to  convince  you." 


142  THE  LITTLE  KENWIQS 

All  were  very  grateful  to  the  young  man,  and  invited 
him  to  join  the  party,  but  he  excused  himself,  saying-  he  had 
just  had  a  very  tiring  journey,  and  wished  to  return  to  his 
friend,  Mr,  Noggs. 

After  they  had  all  talked  over  this  last  excitement,  and 
discussed  little  Lillyvick's  deliverer,  the  collector  pulled  out 
his  watch  and  announced  that  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock,  and 
as  the  poor  children  had  been  for  some  time  obliged  to  keep 
their  little  eyes  open  with  their  little  forefingers,  the  company 
took  leave,  declaring  they  had  never  spent  such  a  delightful 
evening,  and  that  they  wished  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs  had 
a  wedding-day  once  a  week,  and  many  more  remarks  of  the 
same  kind;  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  highly  delighted 
with  the  success  of  their  party,  thanked  them  all  for  coming, 
and  hoped  they  had  enjoyed  themselves  only  half  as  much 
as  they  said  they  had. 


The  Toy-Maker  and  His  Blind  Daughter. 

CALEB  PLUMMER  and  his  blind  dauy:hter  lived 
alone  in  a  little  cracked  nutshell  of  a  house.  They 
were  toy-makers,  and  their  house,  which  was  so  small 
that  it  might  have  been  knocked  to  pieces  with  a  hammer 
and  carried  away  in  a  cart,  was  stuck  like  a  toad-stool  on  to 
the  premises  of  Messrs.  Gruff  &  Tackleton,  the  toy  mer- 
chants for  whom  they  worked- — the  latter  of  whom  was 
himself  both  Gruff  and  Tackleton  in  one. 

I  am  saying-  that  Caleb  and  his  blind  daughter  lived 
here.  I  should  say  Caleb  did;  his  daughter  lived  in  an 
enchanted  palace,  which  her  father's  love  had  created  for  her. 
She  did  not  know  that  the  ceilings  were  cracked,  the 
plaster  tumbling  down,  and  the  woodwork  rotten ;  that 
everything  was  old  and  ugly  and  poverty-stricken  about  her, 
and  that  her  father  was  a  gray-haired,  stooping  old  man, 
and  the  master  for  whom  they  worked  a  hard  and  brutal 
taskmaster;  oh,  dear  no,  she  fancied  a  pretty,  cosy,  com- 
pact little  home  full  of  tokens  of  a  kind  master's  care,  a 
smart,  brisk,  gallant-looking  father,  and  a  handsome  and 
noble-looking  toy  merchant  who   was  an  angel  of  goodness. 

This  was  all  Caleb's  doing.  When  his  blind  daughter 
was  a  baby  he  had  determined,  in  his  great  love  and  pity 
for  her,  that  her  deprivation  should  be  turned  into  a  blessing, 
and  her  life  as  happy  as  he  could  make  it.  And  she  was 
happy  ;  everything  about  her  she  saw  with  her  father's  eyes, 
in  the  rainbow-colored  light  with  which  it  was  his  care  and 
pleasure  to  invest  it. 

Caleb  and  his  daughter   were    at  work  together  in  their 

143 


7/44        THE  TOY -MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER 

usual  working--room,  which    served    them  for  their  ordinary 

liviiij^^i^j,^^  Ajv^^ ; : 4Ln(i>  |a|  stra^ijge ,  .pji|a(Ge  it  was.     There 

were  houses  in  it,    finished  .and    unfinished,  for  dolls  of  all 

stations  in  life,     Suburban  tpnem^nt^,  /or .  cjolls  of  moderate 

means;  kifchens    and    smg^le   apartments    for   dolls    ot    the 

lower   classes;,  capital   town   re,sidences,  lor  dolls   of    high 

estate.     Some   of  these   es^bjishments, were   already   fur- 

nished  accordingf  to  estifnate,  with  a  view  to  the  convenience 

of  dolls  of   limited  yincqme ;.  others   could    be  fitted  on  the 

most  exnensive  scale,    at   a,  rnoment  s    notice,  irom  whole 

shelves  of  chairs  and  tables,  spf^s,  bedsteads,  and  upholstery. 

The  .nobility  and  gentry  and    public    in  general,  for  whose 

accomrnodation  these  tenements  were  designed,  lay  here  and 

there  in  .baskets,  Staring  stra,ight   up ,  atr  the   ceiling ;  but  in 

sififnifyinef  their   degrees, in   society,  and  confining  them  to 

tneir  respective    stations   (which    experience   shows   to    be 

lamentably  difficult  m  real   life),  the,  makers  of  these  dolls 

had  far  improved  on  naturfe,   who    is  often  iroward  and  per- 

verse;  for  they,  not  resting  on  such  arbitrary  marks  as  satin, 

cotton-print  and  bits   of   rag;  had  superajdded  striking  per- 

-nioo.  ,fi^DO  iOr^iiq  h.  ,      w"    ^^ii*^'    /^'-    i:  ?r 

sonal  dmerences  which  allowed  of  no  mistake.      Ihus,  the 

£  jdijn'iiibJ^iAii  barA    i     .  ,.     ,        ^        . 

doll-lady  of  distinction  had  wax  limbs  of  perfect  symmetry; 

but  only  she  ^nd  her  compeers,  the  r^ext  grade  in  the  social 

scale  being  made  of  leather;    and  the  next, coarse  linen  stuff. 

As  to  the  common  people,    they   had  just  so  many  matches 

out  ot  tmder-boxes^for  their   arms    and  legs,  and  there  they 

vi^ere — established  m  thein  sphere  .at  once,  beyond  the  possi- 

i^uy/  itrfS  Dfi/.       n    ^avja}    h\\ii' >     ji>    ^.^    .'-••: 

bility  of  getting  out  of  it.         ,     ^  r  4;.>.^.. 

*        There  were  various    other    samples    of   his  handicraft 

Besides  dolls  in  Caleb  Plummer's  room.     There  were  Noah's 

Arks,  in  which  the   birds   and    beasts  were  an  uncommonly 

iititii  Of 'i^(ib-:'ju]  >iiov/  n.^'ji'm  Tjiu-i'.^  •    ,  ,  ,  . 

tight  fit,  I  assure  you  ;   though   they   could  be  crammed  in. 


THE  TOY-MAKEEAICD  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER         I45 

anyhow,  at  the  roof,  and  rattled  and  shaken  into  the  small- 
est compass.  By  a  bold  pbeticM  license  most  ol  these 
Noah's  Arks  had  khocker^''>fi)W  the  doors ;  inconsistent 
appendages,  perhi*p^^,'  as  su^g^itiv^of*  niornin'gf  callers  and*  a 
postman,  yet  a  pleasant  "finish  to  fefe'outsidei  of  <  the  build  irigi 
There  were  scores  of  melanchoiy  little  carts,  which,  when 
the  wheels  went  ¥ound^^3i:Srfolrtfi0d'fmost  d€>lef til  music. 
Many  small  fiddles,  driin¥§,^and^^thafflnstfumentS'of  torture; 
no  end  of  cannon,  shields,  swords,  spears  and?i§fian:^.  oiTh^e 
were  little  tumblers  iii  rM^bt-eefehe^,  iridessahel^  kwtarrfhg  up 
hig-h  obstacles  of  red  tape,  and  coming-  down,  head  fir^t| 
upon  the  other  side  ;  and  there  were  innumerable  old  gentle- 
men of  respectable,  not  to  "  say-  vefierkble,'  appearance^ 
insanely  flying  over  horizontal  pegs,  inserted^,  few  the  purpose^ 
in  their  own  street  doors.  There  '  were  beasts /d^t Mi  sorts, 
horses  in  particular,^<!)f'  every -brebd,  •  fro'm  the^^ spotted 
barrel  on  four  legs,  with  a  small  tippet  for  ^  mane,  toithe 
thoroughbred  rocker  on  his  highest  mettlel^oY     1  vie  bo■^^oid 

"You  were  out  in  the  rain  last  night  in  your  beautilM 
new  great-coat,"  said  Bertha'.^^iu^ri  aiii   >j  jaoof  obnW 

''Yes,  in  my  beautiful  neW"g-feStPjBa1?,^'^a*i^sW^fed^Caleb, 
glancing  to  where  a  roughly-made  garment  of  sackcloth  was 
hung  up  to  dry.     '"^   ^^^^^  3i*il  'iuox  .oo^i  -^miiii  o^  ,ox^ 

"  How  glad  I  am  you  boughf'ttf  tfafeh^r^gtrnoY  d8  igni^ool 

"And  of  such  a  tailor!  quite  ^J  fdblfibnablesitdilor;  a 
bright  blue  cloth,  with  bright  buttons;  it's  a  deal  too%ood  a 
coat  for  me."         ^^  ^^^^  djiu     ,'ibi>mi^  mh  uo\  Amdi  I  " 

"  Too  good  jf^^^ried  the'^lbd  girl.  Stopping  to  laiigfh 
and  clap  her  hands — "as  if  anything  W^s. too  good  for  my 
handsome  father,  with  his  smiling  fate^^nidf  black  hair,  and 
his  straight  figure^ 'as  if  ^^  Ihi^ft^M  be  too  ,goc!fdt?  for  my 
handsome  father  1 " '   "^    " '  '  "v;  lod     j&di  ni  -  -  -    ^,v/ 

lO 


m6      the  toy-maker  and  his  blind  daughter 

"  I'm  half  ashamed  to  wear  it,  though,"  said  Caleb, 
watching-  the  effect  of  what  he  said  upon  her  brightening 
face;  "upon  my  word.  When  I  hear  the  boys  and  people 
say  behind  me,  'Halloa!  Here's  a  swell! '  I  don't  know 
which  way  to  look.  And  when  the  beggar  wouldn't  go 
away  last  night;  and,  when  I  said  I  was  a  very  common 
man,  said  'No,  your  honor!  Bless  your  honor,  don't  say 
that! '  I  was  quite  ashamed.  I  really  felt  as  if  I  hadn't  a 
right  to  wear  it." 

Happy  blind  girl!  How  merry  she  was  in  her  ex- 
ultation ! 

"I  see  you,  father,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands,  "as 
plainly  as  if  I  had  the  eyes  I  never  want  when  you  are  with 
me.     A  blue  coat " 

"Bright  blue,"  said  Caleb. 

"Yes,  yes!  Bright  blue!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  turning 
up  her  radiant  face;  "the  color  I  can  just  remember  in  the 
blessed  sky!  You  told  me  it  was  blue  before.  A  bright 
blue  coat " 

"  Made  loose  to  the  figure,"  suggested  Caleb. 

"Yes!  loose  to  the  figure!  "  cried  the  blind  girl,  laugh- 
ing heartily;  "and  in  it  you,  dear  father,  with  your  merry 
eye,  your  smiling  face,  your  free  step,  and  your  dark  hair; 
looking  so  young  and  handsome  !  " 

"Halloa!  Halloa!"  said  Caleb,  "I  shall  be  vain 
presently." 

"I  think  you  are  already,"  cried  the  blind  girl,  pointing 
at  him,  in  her  glee.  "I  know  you,  father!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
I've  found  you  out,  you  see!  " 

How  different  the  picture  in  her  mind  from  Caleb,  as  he 
sat  observing  her!  She  had  spoken  of  his  free  step.  She 
was  right  in  that.     For  years  and  years  he  never  once  had 


THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER         i47 

crossed  that  threshold  at  his  own  slow  pace,  but  with  a  footfall 
counterfeited  for  her  ear,  and  never  had  he,  when  his  heart 
was  heaviest,  forg-otten  the  light  tread  that  was  to  render 
hers  so  cheerful  and  courageous. 

"There  we  are,"  said  Caleb,  falling-  back  a  pace  or  two 
to  form  the  better  judgment  of  his  work;  "as  near  the  real 
thing  as  sixpen'orth  of  halfpence  is  to  sixpence.  What  a 
pity  that  the  whole  front  of  the  house  opens  at  once  I  If 
there  was  only  a  staircase  in  it  now,  and  regular  doors  to  the 
rooms  to  go  in  at!  but  that's  the  worst  of  my  calling.  I'm 
always  deluding  myself,  and  swindling  myself." 

"You  are  speaking  quite  softly.  You  are  not  tired, 
father?" 

"Tired,"  echoed  Caleb,  with  a  great  burst  of  animation, 
"what  should  tire  me.  Bertha?  /  was  never  tired.  What 
does  it  mean?" 

To  give  the  greater  force  to  his  words,  he  stopped  him- 
self in  an  imitation  of  two  small  stretching  and  yawning  fig- 
ures on  the  mantelshelf,  who  were  represented  as  in  one 
eternal  state  of  weariness  from  the  waist  upwards,  and 
hummed  a  bit  of  a  song.  It  was  a  drinking  song,  something 
about  a  sparkling  bowl ;  and  he  sang  it  with  an  air  of  a 
devil-may-care  voice,  that  made  his  face  a  thousand  times 
more  meagre  and  more  thoughtful  than  ever. 

"What!  you're  singing,  are  you?"  said  Tackleton, 
putting  his  head  in  at  the  door.     "Go  it!     /  can't  sing." 

Nobody  would  have  suspected  him  of  it.  He  hadn't 
what  is  generally  termed  a  singing  face,  by  any  means. 

"I  can't  afford  to  sing,"  said  Tackleton.  "I'm  glad 
you  can.  I  hope  you  can  afford  to  work,  too.  Hardly  time 
for  both,  I  should  think." 

If  you  could  only  see  him,  Bertha,  how  he's  winking 


e* 


fi^       THE  TOl'-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER 

kk^WV'^  *^h%|>ei^"ed  Calebi^  nvSuch  a  man  to  joke!  You'd 
think,  if  Vc^U^^dn't  know  him^  he  was  in  earnest,  wouldn't 
you,  now^^^^"^'  '^^-^^i  bt\mi    Iffxjrf 

The  blind  girl  smiled  and  nodded, 
ov/i  If  J  i^fn'thaiikingf:..yioii'fbrthe  little  tree,  the  beautiful  little 
tree,"  'ieplied  Bertha,  bringing  forward  a  tiny  rose-tree  in 
blossom,  which,  by  art  innocent  deception,  Caleb  had  made 
flier  believe  was  her  master's  gift,  though  he  himself  had 
gone  without  a  meal  or  two  ita  ibuy  it. 

"The  bird  that  ckil<Bing*and  won't  sing  must  be  made 
to  sing,  they  say," grumbled  Tackleton.  ''What  about  the 
owl  that  can't  sing,  and;  oughtn't  to  sing,  and  will  sing;  is 
there  anything  that  he  should  be  made  to  do?" 
*^^^''' The  extent  to  which  He's  winking  at  this  moment!" 
^rii^'^ered  Caleb  to-his  daughterirr  "Oh,  my  gracious!" 

"Always  merry  and  light-hearted  with  us!"    cried  the 
SiTiiling  Bertha.       b-i*>w  ^iri  oi  ojt.o 

*^^i  >''^'*Oht- you're  there>,ii<aiidi:iyou?"  answered  Tackleton. 
'**To6i-  i^idt-l^'^^^^'J*^'^^*^  •3fi)v/  odw    , 

bm^  He  really  dtd  believe  she>ivVas.  an  idiot;  and  he  founded 
W^^elibf,  I  can't  say  whether  cdnsciously  or  not,  upon  her 
beingftDnd  of  him.^'  ^oiia  on  bm. 

^ainr '*  :\Yell !  and  beiflg  there-^how  are  you?  "  said  Tackleton, 
in  his  grudging  Way. nKfij  luhd-^uodl 

IMoiM'iQ]^]  well ;  quite  weliv  ^l-i^as  happy  as  even  you  can 
wishi4rne  to  be.     As  ha^py  a'Bxjfett  would  make  the  whole 

^(fe^rf,  'rf^OU^eoUldli'i'ii    b:3J03q2U8    3V 

itipobr  idiot  !''"*:>Mutt€red- Tackleton.     "No   gleam  of 
'reasoril     Not  a  gleam!"  biK?.  '  ,^ni? 

tJiiHi  The  blind  girl  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it;  held  it  for 
a  moment  in  her  own  two  hands ;  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
it  tetiderly;  before  releasing  iti     There  was  such  unspeakable 


<  ( 


<( 


THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER         149 

affection  and  such  fervent  gratitude  in  the  act,  that  Tackleton 
himself  was  moved  to  say,  in  a  milder  growl  than  usual ; 

''What's  the  matter  now?" 

"Bertha,"  said  Tackleton,  assuming-,  for  once,  a  little 
cordiality.      "Come  here!" 

"Oh!  I  can  come  straight  to  you.  You  needn't  guide 
me,"  she  rejoined. 

Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret.  Bertha?" 
If  you  will,"  she  answered,  eagerly. 

How  bright  the  darkened  face!  How  adorned  with 
light  the  listening  head ! 

"This  is  the  day  on  which  little  what's-her-name,  the 
spoilt  child,  Peerybingle's  wife,  pays  her  regular  visit  to  you 
— makes  her  fantastic  picnic  here,  ain't  it?"  said  Tackleton, 
with  a  strong  expression  of  distaste  for  the  whole  concern. 

"Yes,"  replied  Bertha.      "This  is  the, day." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Tackleton.  "I  should  like  to 
join  the  party." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  father?"  cried  the  blind  girl  in  an 
ecstasy. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  hear  it,"  murmured  Caleb,  with  the  fixed 
look  of  a  sleep-walker;  "  but  I  do  not  believe  it.  It's  one  of 
my  lies,  I've  no  doubt." 

"You  see  I — I  want  to  bring  the  Peerybingles  a  little 
more  into  company  with  May  Fielding,"  said  Tackleton. 
"  I  am  going  to  be  married  to  May." 

"  Married!  "  cried  the  blind  girl,  starting  from  him. 

"She's  such  a  confounded  idiot,"  muttered  Tackleton, 
"that  I  was  afraid  she'd  never  comprehend  me.  Yes, 
Bertha,  married.  Church,  parson,  clerk,  beadle,  glass- 
coach,  bells,  breakfast,  bride-cake,  favors,  marrow-bones, 
cleavers,   and  all  the   rest    of   the   tomfoolery.     A  wedding, 


150        THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER 


you  know;  a  wedding-.  Don't  you  know  what  a  wedding 
is?" 

"  I  know,"  replied  the  blind  girl,  in  a  gentle  tone.  "I 
understand." 

"Do  you?"  muttered  Tackleton.  **  It's  more  than  I 
expected.  Well,  on  that  account  I  want  you  to  join  the 
party,  and  to  bring-  May  and  her  mother.  I'll  send  a  little 
something-  or  other,  before  the  afternoon.  A  cold  leg-  of 
mutton,  or  some  comfortable  trifle  of  that  sort.  You'll  ex- 
pect me?  " 

''Yes,"  she  answered. 

She  had  drooped  her  head,  and  turned  away ;  and  so 
stood,  with  her  hands  crossed,  musing. 

"I  don't  think  you  will,"  muttered  Tackleton,  looking 
at  her;  "for  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it  already. 
Caleb!" 

"  I  may  venture  to  say  I'm  here,  I  suppose,"  thought 
Caleb.     "Sir?" 

"Take  care  she  don't  forget  what  I've  been  saying  to  her." 

''  S/ie  never  forgets,"  returned  Caleb.  "  It's  one  of  the 
few  things  she  ain't  clever  in." 

"Every  man  thinks  his  own  geese  swans,"  observed 
the  toy  merchant,  with  a  shrug.     "  Poor  devil !  " 

Having  delivered  himself  of  which  remark  with  infinite 
contempt,  old  Gruff  Si  Tackleton  withdrew. 

Bertha  remained  where  he  had  left  her,  lost  in  medita- 
tion. The  gaiety  had  vanished  from  her. downcast  face, 
and  it  was  very  sad.  Three  or  four  times  she  shook  her 
head,  as  if  bewailing  some  remembrance  or  some  loss  ;  but 
her  sorrowful  reflections  found  no  vent  in  words. 

"  Father,  I  am  lonely  in  the  dark.  I  want  my  eyes  ; 
my  patient,  willing  eyes." 


H  -W^v^jf 


"***«». 


THE  TOYMAKER  ANP  HIS  BLtNP  PAUGHTER 


THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER         151 


<<TT  ,1  _>>_•!  /-»        1^1_  '< 


Here  they  are,"  said  Caleb.  Always  ready.  They 
are  more  yours  than  mine,  Bertha,  any  hour  in  the  four-and- 
twenty.     What  shall  your  eyes  do  for  you,  dear  ?  " 

''Look  round  the  room,  father." 

"All  rigfht,"  said  Caleb.  "No  sooner  said  than  done, 
Bertha." 


Tell  me  about  it." 

"It's  much  the  same  as  usual,"  said  Caleb.  "Homely, 
but  very  snug.  The  gay  colors  on  the  walls  ;  the  bright 
flowers  on  the  plates  and  dishes  ;  the  shining  wood,  where 
there  are  beams  or  panels ;  the  general  cheerfulness  and 
neatness  of  the  building,  make  it  very  pretty." 

Cheerful  and  neat  it  was,  wherever  Bertha's  hands 
could  busy  themselves.  But  nowhere  else  were  cheerful- 
ness possible,  in  the  old  crazy  shed  which  Caleb's  fancy  so 
transformed. 

"You  have  your  working  dress  on,  and  are  not  so 
gallant  as  when  you  wear  the  handsome  coat,"  said  Bertha, 
touching  him. 

"Not  quite  so  gallant,"  answered  Caleb.  ."Pretty 
brisk,  though." 

"Father,"  said  the  blind  girl,  drawing  close  to  his  side 
and  stealing  one  arm  round  his  neck,  "tell  me  something 
about  May.     She  is  very  fair?" 

"She  is,  indeed,"  said  Caleb.  And  she  was  indeed. 
It  was  quite  a  rare  thing  to  Caleb  not  to  have  to  draw  on 
his  invention. 

"Her  hair  is  dark,"  said  Bertha,  pensively,  "darker 
than  mine.  Her  voice  is  sweet  and  musical,  I  know.  I  have 
often  loved  to  hear  it.     Her  shape " 

"There's  not  a  doll's  in  all  the  room  to  equal  it,"  said 
Caleb     "And  her  eyes " 


152        THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER 

He  stopped ;  for  Bertha  had  drawn  closer  round  his 
neck  ;  and,  from  the  arm  that  clung-  about  him,  came  a  warn- 
ing" pressure  which  he  understood  too  well. 

He  coughed  a  moment,  hammered  for  a  moment,  and 
then  fell  back  upon  the  song  about  the  sparkling  bowl ;  his 
infallible  resource  in  all  such  difficulties. 

"Our  friend,  father;  our  benefactor.  I  am  never  tired, 
you  know,  of  hearing  about  him.  Now  was  I,  ever?  she 
said,  hastily. 

**Of  course  not,"  answered  Caleb.      "And  with  reason." 

"Ah!  with  how  much  reason?"  cried  the  blind  girl, 
with  such  fervency  that  Caleb,  though  his  motives  were 
pure,  could  not  endure  to  meet  her  face,  but  dropped 
his  eyes,  as  if  she  could  have  read  in  them  his  innocent 
deceit. 

"Then  tell  me  again  about  him,  dear  father,"  said  Bertha. 
"Many  times  again.  His  face  is  benevolent,  kind  and 
tender.  Honest  and  true,  I  am  sure  it  is.  The  manly  heart 
that  tries  to  cloak  all  favors  with  a  show  of  roughness  and 
unwillingness  beats  in  its  every  look  and  glance." 

"And  makes  it  noble,"  added  Caleb  in  his  quiet 
desperation. 

"And  makes  it  noble!  "  cried  the  blind  girl.  "He  is 
older  than  May,  father?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  Caleb,  reluctantly.  "He's  a  little  older 
than  May,  but  that  don't  signify." 

"Bertha,"  said  Caleb  softly,  "what  has  happened? 
How  changed  you  are,  my  darling,  in  a  few  hours — since 
this  morning.  Yoji  silent  and  dull  all  day!  What  is  it  ? 
Tell  me!" 

"Oh  father,  father!  "  cried  the  blind  girl,  bursting  into 
tears.     "Oh,  my  hard,  hard  fate!" 


THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER         153 

Caleb  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  before  he  answered 
her. 

"But  think  how  cheerful  and  how  happy  you  have  been, 
Bertha.     How  good,  and  how  much  loved,  by  many  people." 

**That  strikes  me  to  the  heart,  dear  father!  Always  so 
mindful  of  me!  Always  so  kind  to  me!" 

Caleb  was  very  much  perplexed  to  understand  her. 

"To  be — to  be  blind,  Bertha,  my  poor  dear,"  he  faltered, 
"is  a  great  affliction;  but " 

"I  have  never  felt  it!"  cried  the  blind  girl.  "I  have 
never  felt  it  in  its  fullness.  Never!  I  have  sometimes 
wished  that  I  could  see  you,  or  could  see  him  ;  only  once,  dear 
father;  only  for  one  little  minute.  But,  father!  Oh,  my 
good,  gentle  father,  bear  with  me,  if  I  am  wicked!"  said  the 
blind  girl.     "This  is  not  the  sorrow  that  so  weighs  me  down !" 

"Bertha,  my  dear,"  said  Caleb,  "I  have  something  on 
my  mind  I  want  to  tell  you,  while  we  are  alone.  Hear  me 
kindly.     I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you,  my  darling." 

'A  confession,  father?" 

I  have  wandered  from  the  truth  and  lost  myself,  my 
child,"  said  Caleb,  with  a  pitiable  expression  in  his  be- 
wildered face.  "I  have  wandered  from  the  truth,  intending 
to  be  kind  to  you ;  and  have  been  cruel." 

She  turned  her  wonder-stricken  face  towards  him,  and 
repeated,  "Cruel!  He  cruel  to  me!"  cried  Bertha,  with  a^ 
smile  of  incredulity. 

"  Not  meaning  it,  my  child,"  said  Caleb.  "But  I  have 
been;  though  I  never  suspected  it  till  yesterday.  My  dear, 
blind  daughter,  hear  me  and  forgive  me !  The  world  you 
live  in,  heart  of  mine,  doesn't  exist  as  I  have  represented  it. 
The  eyes  you  have  trusted  in  have  been  false  to  you. 

She  turned  her  wonder-stricken  face  towards  him  still. 


<  < 

<  ( 


154        THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER 


■  **Your  road  in  life  was  roug-h,  my  poor  one,"  said 
Caleb,  "and  I  meant  to  smooth  it  for  you.  I  have  altered 
objects,  invented  many  things  that  never  have  been,  to 
make  you  happier.  I  have  had  concealments  from  you,  put 
deceptions  on  you,  God  forgive  me!  and  surrounded  you 
with  fancies." 

"But  living"  people  are  not  fancies,"  she  said  hurriedly, 
and  turning"  very  pale,  and  still  retiring  from  him.  "You 
can't  change  them." 

"  I  have  done  so.  Bertha,"  pleaded  Caleb.  "There  is 
one  person  that  you  know,  my  Dove " 

"Oh,  father!  why  do  you  say  I  know?"  she  answered 
in  a  tone  of  keen  reproach.  "What  and  whom  do  I  know! 
I,  who  have  no  leader!  I,  so  miserably  blind!  " 

In  the  anguish  of  her  heart  she  stretched  out  her  hands, 
as  if  she  were  groping  her  way ;  then  spread  them,  in  a  man- 
ner most  forlorn  and  sad,  upon  her  face. 

"The  marriage  that  takes  place  toda^^,"  said  Caleb,  "is 
with  a  stern,  sordid  grinding-  man.  A  hard  master  to  you 
and  me,  my  dear,  for  many  years.  Ugly  in  his  looks  and 
in  his  nature.  Cold  and  callous  always.  Unlike  what  I 
have  painted  him  to  you  in  everything,  my  child ;  in 
everything." 

"Oh,  why,"  cried  the  blind  girl,  tortured,  as  it  seemed, 
almost  beyond  endurance,  "why  did  you  ever  do  this? 
Why  did  you  ever  fill  my  heart  so  full,  and  then  come  in, 
like  death,  and  tear  away  the  objects  of  my  love?  Oh, 
heaven,  how  blind  I  am !      How  helpless  and  alone!  " 

Her  afflicted  father  hung  his  head,  and  offered  no  reply 
but  in  his  penitence  and  sorrow. 

'Tell  me  what  my  home  is.     What  it  truly  is." 

It  is  a  poor  place,  Bertha ;  very  poor  and  bare  indeed. 


1 1, 


THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND  DAUGHTER         I55 

The  house  will  scarcely  keep  out  wind  and  rain  another 
winter.  It  is  as  roughly  shielded  from  the  weather,  Bertha, 
as  your  poor  father  in  his  sackcloth  coat." 

* 'Those  presents  ihat  I  took  such  care  of,  that  came  al- 
most at  my  wish,  and  were  so  dearly  welcome  to  me,"  she 
said,  trembling*;  ''where  did  they  come  from?" 

Caleb  did  not  answer.  She  knew  already,  and  was 
silent. 

'  I  see,  I  understand,"  said  Bertha,  "and  now  I  am 
looking-  at  3^ou,  at  my  kind,  loving-,  compassionate  father, 
tell  me  what  is  he  like?" 

"An  old  man,  my  child  ;  thin,  bent,  g-ray-haired,  worn- 
out  with  hard  work  and  sorrow ;  a  weak,  foolish,  deceitful 
old  man." 

The  blind  g-irl  threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  him, 
and  took  his  gray  head  in  her  arms.  "It  is  my  siglit,  it  is 
my  sight  restored,"  she  cried.  "I  have  been  blind,  but  now 
I  see ;  I  have  never  till  now  truly  seen  my  father.  Does  he 
think  that  there  is  a  gallant,  handsome  father  in  this  earth 
that  I  could  love  so  dearly,  cherish  so  devotedly,  as  this 
worn  and  gray-headed  old  man  ?  Father,  there  is  not  a  gray 
hair  on  your  head  that  shall  be  forgotten  in  my  prayers  and 
thanks  to  heaven." 

"My  Bertha!"  sobbed  Caleb,  "and  the  brisk  smart 
father  in  the  blue  coat — he's  gone,  my  child." 

"Dearest  father,  no,  he's  not  gone,  nothing  is  gone, 
everything  I  loved  and  believed  in  is  here  in  this  worn,  old 
father  of  mine,  and  more — oh,  so  much  more,  too !  I  have 
been  happy  and  contented,  but  I  shall  be  happier  and  more 
contented  still,  now  that  I  know  what  you  are.  I  am  not 
blind,  father,  any  long:er  " 


Little  David  Copperfield. 


I 


LITTLE    DAVID 
COPPERFIELD, 

^  1  ived  with  my 
mother  in  a  pretty  house 
in  the  villag-e  of  Blunder- 
stone  in  Suffolk.  I  had 
never  known  my  father, 
who  died  before  I  could 
remember  anything",  and  I 
had  neither  ^brothers  nor 
sisters.  I  was  fondly 
loved  by  my  pretty  young" 
mother,  and  our  kind,  good 
servant,  Peggotty,  and 
was  a  very  happy  little 
fellow.  We  had  very  few 
friends,  and  the  only  re- 
lation my  mother  talked 
about  was  an  aunt  of  my 
father's,  a  tall  and  rather  terrible  old  lady,  from  all  accounts, 
who  had  once  been  to  see  us  when  I  was  quite  a  tiny  baby, 
and  had  been  so  angry  to  find  I  was  not  a  little  girl  that  she 
had  left  the  house  quite  offended,  and  had  never  been  heard 
of  since.  One  visitor,  a  tall,  dark  gentleman,  I  did  not  like 
at  all,  and  was  rather  inclined  to  be  jealous  that  my  mother 
should  be  so  friendly  with  the  stranger. 

Peggotty  and  I  were  sitting-  one  night  by  the  parlor  fire, 
alone.      I  had  been  reading  to  Peggotty  about  crocodiles.     I 

ic6 


(d;n;_^«-vfcU 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  i57 

v/as  tired  of  reading-,  and  dead  sleepy ;  but  having  leave,  as 
a  high  treat,  to  sit  up  until  my  mother  came  home  from 
spending-  the  evening  at  a  neighbor's,  I  would  rather  have 
died  upon  my  post  (of  course)  than  have  gone  to  bed.  I 
had  reached  that  stage  of  sleepiness  when  Peggotty  seemed 
to  swell  and  grow  immensely  large.  I  propped  my  eyelids 
open  with  my  two  forefingers,  and  looked  perseveringly  at 
her  as  she  sat  at  work  ;  at  the  little  house  with  a  thatched 
roof,  where  the  yard-measure  lived ;  at  her  work-box  with  a 
sliding-lid,  with  a  view  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  (with  a  pink 
dome)  painted  on  the  top  ;  at  the  brass  thimble  on  her  finger ; 
at  herself,  whom  I  thought  lovely.  I  felt  so  sleepy  that  T 
knew  if  I  lost  sight  of  anything,  for  a  moment,  I  was  gone. 

"Peggotty,"  says  I,  suddenly,  "were you  ever  married?" 

"Lord,  Master  Davy!  "  replied  Peg-gotty.  "What's  put 
marriage  in  your  head?" 

She  answered  with  such  a  start  that  it  quite  awoke  me. 
And  then  she  stopped  in  her  work  and  looked  at  me,  with 
her  needle  drawn  out  to  its  thread's  length. 

"But 'Z£/^;'^  you  ever  married,  Peggotty?"  says  I.  "You 
are  a  very  handsome  woman,  ain't  you?" 

"Me  handsome,  Davy  !  "  said  Pegg-otty.  "Lawk,  no, 
my  dear!     But  what  put  marriage  in  your  head? " 

"I  don't  know.  You  mustn't  marry  more  than  one 
person  at  a  time,  may  you,  Peggotty?" 

"Certainly  not,"  says  Peg-gotty,  with  the  promptest 
decision. 

"But  if  you  marry  a  person,  and  the  person  dies,  why 
then  you  may  marry  another  person,  mayn't  you,  Peg-gotty?  " 

"You  MAY,"  says  Peggotty,  **if  you  choose,  my  dear, 
That's  a  matter  of  opinion." 

"But  what  is  your  opinion,  Peggotty?"  said  I. 


158  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  asked  her  and  looked  curiously  at  her,  because  she 
looked  so  curiously  at  me. 

"My  opinion  is,"  said  Peg-g-otty,  taking-  her  eyes  from 
me,  after  a  little  indecision,  and  g-oing-  on  with  her  work, 
"that  I  never  was  married  myself,  Master  Davy,  and  that 
I  don't  expect  to  be.  That's  all  I  know  about  the  sub- 
ject." 

"You  ain't  cross,  I  suppose,  Pegg-otty,  are  you?"  said  I, 
after  sitting  quiet  for  a  minute. 

I  really  thoug-ht  she  was,  she  had  been  so  short  with 
me;  but  I  was  quite  mistaken;  for  she  laid  aside  her  work 
(which  was  a  stocking  of  her  own)  and  opening  her  arms 
wide,  took  my  curly  head  within  them,  and  gave  it  a  good 
squeeze.  I  know  it  was  a  good  squeeze,  because,  being 
very  plump,  whenever  she  made  any  little  exertion  after  she 
was  dressed  some  of  the  buttons  on  the  back  of  her  gown 
flew  off.  And  I  recollect  two  bursting  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  parlor,  while  she  was  hugging  me. 

One  day  Peggotty  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  go  with 
her  on  a  visit  tc  her  brother  at  Yarmouth. 

"Is  your  brother  an  agreeable  man,  Peggotty?"  I 
inquired. 

Oh,  what  an  agreeable  man  he  is!"  cried  Peggotty. 
Then  there's   the  sea,   and  the  boats  and  ships,  and  the 
fishermen,  and  the  beach.     And  'Am  to  play  with." 

Ham  was  her  nephew.  I  was  quite  anxious  to  go  when 
I  heard  of  all  these  delights ;  but  my  mother,  what  would 
she  do  all  alone?  Peggotty  told  me  my  mother  was  going  to 
pay  a  visit  to  some  friends,  and  would  be  sure  to  let  me  go. 
So  all  was  arranged,  and  we  were  to  start  the  next  day  in  the 
carrier's  cart.  I  was  so  eager  that  I  wanted  to  put  my  hat 
and  coat  on  the  night  before !     But  when  the  time  came  to 


IiITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  1 59 

say  g-ood-bye  to  my  dear  mamma  I  cried  a  little,  for  I  had 
never  left  her  before.  It  was  a  rather  slow  way  of  traveling, 
and  I  was  very  tired  and  sleepy  when  I  arrived  at  Yarmouth, 
and  found  Ham  waiting-  to  meet  me.  He  was  a  great  strong 
fellow,  six  feet  high,  and  took  me  on  his  back  and  the  box 
under  his  arm  to  carry  both  to  the  house.  I  was  delighted 
to  find  that  this  house  was  made  of  a  real,  big,  black  boat, 
with  a  door  and  windows  cut  in  the  side,  and  an  iron  funnel 
sticking  out  of  the  roof  for  a  chimney.  Inside  it  was  very 
cozy  and  clean,  and  I  had  a  tiny  bedroom  in  the  stern.  I 
was  very  much  pleased  to  find  a  dear  little  girl,  about  my 
own  age,  to  play  with,  and  after  tea  I  said : 
"  Mr.  Peggotty/* 

Sir,'*  says  he. 

Did  you  give  your  son  the  name  of  Ham  because  you 
lived  in  a  sort  of  ark?*' 

Mr.  Peggotty  seemed  to  think  it  a  deep  idea,  but 
answered: 

No,  sir.      I  never  giv'  him  no  name.* 

Who   gave   him    that    name,  then?'*    said  I,  putting 
question  number  two  of  the  catechism  to  Mr.  Peggotty. 

Why,  sir,  his  father  giv'  it  him,"  said  Mr  Peggotty. 

I  thought  you  were  his  father." 

My  brother  Joe  was  his  father,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

Dead,    Mr.    Peggotty?"  I  hinted,  after   a   respectful 
pause. 

"  Drowndead,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  that  Mr.  Peggotty  was  not 
Ham's  father,  and  began  to  wonder  whether  I  was  mistaken 
about  his  relationship  to  anybody  else  there.  I  was  so 
curious  to  know  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it  out  with 
Mr.  Peggotty. 


(( 


(( 


i6o  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

"Little  Em'ly/'  I  said,  glancing"  at  her.  ''She  is 
your  daughter,  isn't  she,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

"  No,  sir.     My  brotHer-in  law,  Tom,  was  Aer  father." 

I    couldn't   help    it.       '' Dead,    Mr.   Peggotty?"   I 

hinted,  after  another  respectful  silence. 

"Drowndead,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  felt  the  difficulty  of  resuming  the  subject,  but  had  not 
got  to  the  bottom  of  it  yet,  and  must  get  to  the  bottom 
somehow.     So  I  said: 

'*  Haven't  you  any  children,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

"  No,  master,"  he  answered,  with  a  short  laugh.  '*  I'm 
a  bacheldore." 

"A  bachelor!"  I  said,  astonished.  "Why,  who's  that, 
Mr.  Peggotty?"  pointing  to  the  person  in  the  apron  who 
was  knitting. 

That's  Missis  Gummidge,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
Gummidge,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

But  at  this  point  Peggotty — I  mean  my  own  Peggotty — 
made  such  impressive  motions  to  me  not  to  ask  any  more 
questions  that  I  could  only  sit  and  look  at  all  the  company, 
until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Gummidge  lived  with  them,  too,  and  did  the 
cooking  and  cleaning,  for  she  was  a  poor  widow  and  had  no 
home  of  her  own.  I  thought  Mr.  Peggotty  was  very  good 
to  take  all  these  people  to  live  with  him,  and  I  was  quite 
right,  for  Mr.  Peggotty  was  only  a  poor  man  himself  and 
had  to  work  hard  to  get  a  living. 

Almost  as  soon  as  morning  shone  upon  the  oyster-shell 
frame  of  my  mirror  I  was  out  of  bed,  and  out  with  little 
Em'ly  picking  up  stones  upon  the  beach. 

"You're  quite  a  sailor,  I  suppose?"  I  said  to  Em'ly.  I 
don't  know  that  I  supposed  anything  of  the  kind,  but  I  felt 


pk.''i?^S*^^^.55^^:£:4 


n 


L.-- ,™^.-.-^, 


/; 


:i 


t-^  y»^  X 


■^t*r'. 


.^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD  AND  LITTLE  EM'LY 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  lOi 

It  an  act  of  g^allantry  to  say  something^ ;  and  a  shining  sail 
close  to  us  made  such  a  pretty  little  image  of  itself,  at  the 
moment,  in  her  bright  eye,  that  it  came  into  my  head  to  say  this. 

"No,"  replied  Em'ly,  shaking  her  head,  "I'm  afraid  of 
the  sea." 

"Afraid  !  "  I  said,  with  a  becoming  air  of  boldness,  and 
looking  very  big  at  the  mighty  ocean.      "/  ain't." 

"Ah!  but  it's  cruel,"  said  Em'ly.  "I  have  seen  it  very 
cruel  to  some  of  our  men.  I  have  seen  it  tear  a  boat  as  big 
as  our  house  all  to  pieces." 

"I  hope  it  wasn't  the  boat  that " 

"That  father  was  drowned  in?"  said  Em'ly.  "No. 
Not  that  one.     I  never  see  that  boat." 

"Nor  him?"  I  asked  her. 

Little  Em'ly  shook  her  head.      "Not  to  remember.'* 

Here  was  a  coincidence !  I  immediately  went  into  an 
explanation  how  I  had  never  seen  my  own  father ;  and  how 
my  mother  and  I  had  always  lived  by  ourselves  in  the  happiest 
state  imaginable,  and  lived  so  then,  and  always  meant  to  live 
so;  and  how  my  father's  grave  was  in  the  churchyard  near 
our  house,  and  shaded  by  a  tree,  beneath  the  boughs  of 
which  I  had  walked  and  heard  the  birds  sing  many  a  pleasant 
morning.  But  there  were  some  differences  between  Em'ly's 
orphanhood  and  mine,  it  appeared.  She  had  lost  her  mother 
before  her  father,  and  where  her  father's  grave  was  no  one 
knew,  except  that  it  was  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

"Besides,"  said  Em'ly,  as  she  looked  about  for  shells 
and  pebbles,  "your  father  was  a  gentleman  and  your  mother 
is  a  lady ;  and  my  father  was  a  fisherman  and  my  mother 
was  a  fisherman's  daughter,  and  my  Uncle  Dan  is  a 
fisherman." 

Dan  is  Mr.   Peggotty,  is  he?"  said  I. 


( < 


II 


162  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 


<<i 


'Uncle  Dan — yonder,"  answered  Em'ly,  nodding"  at  the 
boat-house. 

*'Yes.  I  mean  him.  He  must  be  very  g"ood,  I  should 
think.'* 

'-'Good?"  said  Em'ly.  "If  I  was  ever  to  be  a  lady  I'd 
give  him  a  sky-blue  coat  with  diamond  buttons,  nankeen 
trousers,  a  red  velvet  waistcoat,  a  cocked  hat,  a  large  g"old 
watch,  a  silver  pipe  and  a  box  of  money." 

I  said  I  had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Peg-g-otty  well  deserved 
these  treasures. 

Little  Em'ly  had  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  sky 
in  her  enumeration  of  these  articles,  as  if  they  were  a  gflorious 
vision.     We  went  on  again,  picking-  up  shells  and  pebbles. 

"You  would  like  to  be  a  lady?"  I  said. 

Em'ly  looked  at  me,  and  laughed  and  nodded  "yes." 

"I  should  like  it  very  much.  We  would  all  be  g-entle- 
folks  together,  then.  Me,  and  uncle,  and  Ham,  and  Mrs. 
Gummidge.  We  wouldn't  mind  then,  when  there  come 
stormy  weather.  Not  for  our  own  sakes,  I  mean.  We 
would  for  the  poor  fishermen's,  to  be  sure,  and  we'd  help  'em 
with  money  when  they  come  to  any  hurt." 

I  was  quite  sorry  to  leave  these  kind  people  and  my 
dear  little  companion,  but  still  I  was  glad  to  think  that  I 
should  get  back  to  my  own  dear  mamma.  When  I  reached 
home,  however,  I  found  a  great  change.  My  mother  was 
married  to  the  dark  man  I  did  not  like,  whose  name  was  Mr 
Murdstone,  and  he  was  a  stern,  hard  man,  who  had  no  love 
for  me,  and  did  not  allow  my  mother  to  pet  and  indulge  me 
as  she  had  done  before.  Mr.  Murdstone' s  sister  came  to 
live  with  us,  and  as  she  was  even  more  difficult  to  please  than 
her  brother,  and  disliked  boys,  my  life  was  no  longer  a  happy 
one.     I  tried  to  be  good  and  obedient,  for  I  knew  it  made 


lilTTLE  DAVID  COPPERFiELD  163 

my  mother  veo^  unhappy  to  see  me  punished  and  found  fault 
with.  I  had  always  had  lessons  with  my  mother,  and  as  she 
was  patient  and  gentle  I  had  enjoyed  learning-  to  read,  but 
now  I  had  a  great  many  very  hard  lessons  to  do,  and  was  so 
frightened  and  shy  when  Mr:  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  in 
the  room,  that  I  did  not  get  on  at  all  well,  and  was  continu- 
ally in  disgrace. 

Let  me  remember  how  it  used  to  be,  and  bring  one  morn- 
ing back  again. 

I  come  into  the  second-best  parlor  after  breakfast,  with 
my  books,  and  an  exercise-book  and  a  slate.  My  mother  is 
ready  for  me  at  her  writing-desk,  but  not  half  so  ready  as 
Mr.  Murdstone  in  his  easy-chair  by  the  window  (though  he 
pretends  to  be  reading  a  book),  or  as  Miss  Murdstone, 
sitting  near  my  mother  stringing  steel  beads.  The  very 
sight  of  these  two  has  such  an  influence  over  me  that  I 
begin  to  feel  the  words  I  have  been  at  infinite  pains  to  get 
into  my  head  all  sliding  away,  and  going,  I  don't  know 
where.     I  wonder  where  they  do  go,  by-the-by? 

I  hand  the  first  book  to  my  mother.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
grammar,  perhaps  a  history,  or  geography.  I  take  a  last 
drowning  look  at  the  page  as  I  give  it  into  her  hand,  and 
start  off  aloud  at  a  racing  pace  while  I  have  got  it  fresh.  I 
trip  over  a  word.  Mr.  Murdstone  looks  up.  I  trip  over  an- 
other word.  Miss  Murdstone  looks  up.  I  redden,  tumble 
over  half  a  dozen  words,  and  stop.  I  think  my  mother 
would  show  me  the  book  if  she  dared,  but  she  does  not  dare, 
and  she  says  softly: 

*'0h,  Davy,  Davy!'' 

*'Now,  Clara,"  says  Mr.  Murdstone,  *'be  firm  with  the 
boy.  Don't  say.  Oh,  Davy,  Davy!'  That's  childish.  He 
knows  his  lesson,  or  he  does  not  know  it." 


104  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

*'He  does  not  know  it,"  Miss  Murdstone  interposes 
awfully. 

**I  am  really  afraid  he  does  not,"  says  my  mother. 

"Then  you  see,  Clara,"  returns  Miss  Murdstone,  "you 
should  just  give  him  the  book  back,  and  make  him  know  it." 
\  "Yes,  certainly,"  says  my  mother;  "that  is  what  I  in- 
tend to  do,  my  dear  Jane.  Now,  Davy,  try  once  more,  and 
don't  be  stupid." 

I  obey  the  first  clause  of  the  injunction  by  trying-  once 
more,  but  am  not  so  successful  with  the  second,  for  I  am 
very  stupid.  I  tumble  down  before  I  get  to  the  old  place, 
at  a  point  where  I  was  all  right  before,  and  stop  to  think. 
But  I  can't  think  about  the  lesson.  I  think  of  the  number 
of  yards  of  net  in  Miss  Murdstone's  cap,  or  of  the  price  of 
Mr.  Murdstone's  dressing-gown,  or  any  such  ridiculous 
problem  that  I  have  no  business  with,  and  don't  want  to 
have  anything  at  all  to  do  with.  Mr.  Murdstone  makes  a 
movement  of  impatience  which  I  have  been  expecting  for  a 
long  time.  Miss  Murdstone  does  the  same.  My  mother 
glances  submissively  at  them,  shuts  the  book,  and  lays  it 
by  as  an  arrear  to  be  worked  out  when  my  other  tasks  are 
done. 

There  is  a  pile  of  these  arrears  very  soon,  and  it  swells 
like  a  rolling  snowball.  The  bigger  it  gets,  the  more  stupid 
I  get.  The  case  is  so  hopeless,  and  I  feel  that  I  am 
wallowing  in  such  a  bog  of  nonsense,  that  I  give  up  all 
idea  of  getting  out,  and  abandon  myself  to  my  fate.  The 
despairing  way  in  which  my  mother  and  I  look  at  each 
other,  as  I  blunder  on,  is  truly  melancholy.  But  the  great- 
est effect  in  these  miserable  lessons  is  when  my  mother 
(thinking  nobody  is  observing  her)  tries  to  give  me  the 
cue  by  the  motion  of  her  lips.     At  that  instant.  Miss  Murd- 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  165 

Stone,  who  has  been  lying-  in  wait  for  nothing  else  all  along, 
says  in  a  deep  warning  voice : 

*'Clara!" 

My  mother  starts,  colors  and  smiles  faintly.  Mr. 
Murdstone  comes  out  of  his  chair,  takes  the  book,  throws  it 
at  me,  or  boxes  my  ears  with  it,  and  turns  me  out  of  the 
room  by  the  shoulders. 

My  only  pleasure  was  to  go  up  into  a  little  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house  where  I  had  found  a  number  of  books 
that  had  belonged  to  my  own  father,  and  I  would  sit  and 
read  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  many  tales  of  travels  and  adven- 
tures, and  I  imagined  myself  to  be  sometimes  one  and  some- 
times another  hero,  and  went  about  for  days  with  the  centre- 
piece out  of  an  old  set  of  boot-trees,  pretending"  to  be  a  cap- 
tain in  the  British  Royal  Navy. 

One  morning  when  I  went  into  the  parlor  with  my 
books,  I  found  my  mother  looking  anxious.  Miss  Murdstone 
looking  firm,  and  Mr.  Murdstone  binding  something  round 
the  bottom  of  a  cane — a  lithe  and  limber  cane,  which  he  left 
off  binding  when  I  came  in,  and  poised  and  switched  in 
the  air. 

"I  tell  you,  Clara,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  *'I  have  often 
been  flogged  myself." 

To  be  sure;   of  course,"  said  Miss  Murdstone. 
Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,"  faltered  my  mother,  meekly. 
But — but  do  you  think  it  did  Edward  good?" 

Do  you  think  it  did  Edward  harm,  Clara?"  asked  Mr. 
'^iurdstone,  gravely. 

"That's  the  point! "  said  his  sister. 

To  this  my  mother  returned,  "Certainly,  my  dear  Jane," 
and  said  no  more. 

I  felt  apprehensive  that  I  was  personally  interested  in 


-DU 


166  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

this  dialog-ue,  and  sought  Mr.  Murdstone's  eye  as  it  lighted 
on  mine. 

**Now,  David,"  he  said — and  I  saw  that  cast  ag-ain,  as 
he  said  it — 'V^^^  must  be  far  more  careful  to-day  than  usual." 
He  gave  the  cane  another  poise  and  another  switch;  and 
having-  finished  his  preparation  of  it,  laid  it  down  beside 
him,  with  an  expressive  look,  and  took  up  his  book. 

This  was  a  good  freshener  to  my  presence  of  mind,  sa 
a  beginning.  I  felt  the  words  of  my  lessons  slipping  off, 
not  one  by  one,  or  line  by  line,  but  by  the  entire  page.  I 
tried  to  lay  hold  of  them ;  but  they  seemed,  if  I  may  so  ex- 
press it,  to  have  put  skates  on,  and  to  skim  away  from  me 
with  a  smoothness  there  was  no  checking. 

We  began  badly,  and  went  on  worse.  I  had  come  in 
with  an  idea  of  distinguishing  myself  rather,  conceiving  that 
I  was  very  well  prepared ;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  quite  a 
mistake.  Book  after  book  was  added  to  the  heap  of  failures, 
Miss  Murdstone  being  firmly  watchful  of  us  all  the  time. 
And  when  we  came  at  last  to  the  five  thousand  cheeses 
(canes  he  made  it  that  day,  I  remember) ,  my  mother  burst 
out  crying. 

Clara!**  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning  voice. 
I  am  not  quite  well,  my  dear  Jane,  I  think,"  said  my 
mother. 

I  saw  him  wink,  solemnly,  at  his  sister,  as  he  rose  and 
said,  taking  up  the  cane : 

"Why,  Jane,  we  can  hardly  expect  Clara  to  bear,  with 
perfect  firmness,  the  worry  and  torment  that  David  has  oc- 
casioned her  to-day.  Clara  is  greatly  strengthened  and  im- 
proved, but  we  can  hardly  expect  so  much  from  her.  David, 
you  and  I  will  go  upstairs,  boy." 

As  he  took  me  out  at  the  door,  my  mother  ran  towards 


it 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  167 

US.  Miss  Murdstone  said,  "Clara!  are  you  a  perfect  fool?" 
and  interfered.  I  saw  my  mother  stop  her  ears  then,  and  I 
heard  her  cryingf. 

He  walked  me  up  to  my  room  slowly  and  gravely — I 
am  certain  he  had  a  deligfht  in  that  formal  parade  of  execut- 
ing justice — and  when  we  got  there,  suddenly  twisted  my 
head  under  his  arm. 

"Mr.  Murdstone!  Sir!"  I  cried  to  him.  "Don't! 
Pray  don't  beat  me!  I  have  tried  to  learn,  sir,  but  I  can't 
learn  while  you  and  Miss  Murdstone  are  by.   I  can't,  indeed !" 

"Can't  you,  indeed,  David?"  he  said.    "We'll  try  that." 

He  had  my  head  as  in  a  vise,  but  I  twined  round  him 
somehow,  and  stopped  him  for  a  moment,  entreating  him  not 
to  beat  me.  It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I  stopped  him, 
for  he  cut  me  heavily  an  instant,  afterwards,  and  in  the  same 
instant  I  caught  the  hand  with  which  he  held  me  in  my 
mouth,  between  my  teeth,  and  bit  it  through.  It  sets  my 
teeth  on  edge  to  think  of  it. 

He  beat  me  then,  as  if  he  would  have  beaten  me  to 
death.  Above  all  the  noise  we  made,  I  heard  them  running 
up  the  stairs,  and  crying  out — I  heard  my  mother  crying  out 
— and  Peggotty.  Then  he  was  gone;  and  the  door  was 
locked  outside ;  and  I  was  lying,  fevered  and  hot,  and  torn, 
and  sore,  and  raging  in  my  puny  way,  upon  the  floor. 

How  well  I  recollect,  when  I  became  quiet,  what  an  un- 
natural stillness  seemed  to  reign  through  the  whole  house ! 
How  well  I  remember,  when  my  smart  and  passion  began  to 
cool,  how  wicked  I  began  to  feel ! 

I  sat  listening  for  a  long  while,  but  there  was  not  a 
sound.  I  crawled  up  from  the  floor,  and  saw  my  face  in  the 
glass,  so  swollen,  red  and  ugly  that  it  almost  frightened  me. 
My  stripes  were  sore  and  stiff,  and  made  me  cry  afresh,  when 


168  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  moved ;  but  they  were  nothing-  to  the  guilt  I  felt.  It  lay 
heavier  on  my  breast  than  if  I  had  been  a  most  atrocious 
criminal,  I  dare  say. 

It  had  begun  to  grow  dark,  and  I  had  shut  the  window 
(I  had  been  lying,  for  the  most  part,  with  my  head  upon  the 
sill,  by  turns  crying,  dozing-  and  looking  listlessly  out), 
when  the  key  was  turned,  and  Miss  Murdstone  came  in  with 
some  bread  and  meat  and  milk.  These  she  put  down  upon 
the  table  without  a  word,  glaring  at  me  the  while  with  ex- 
emplary firmness,  and  then  retired,  locking  the  door  after  her. 

I  never  shall  forg-et  the  waking,  next  morning^ ;  the  being- 
cheerful  and  fresh  for  the  first  moment,  and  then  the  beingf 
weighed  down  by  the  stale  and  dismal  oppression  of  remem- 
brance. Miss  Murdstone  reappeared  before  I  was  out  of  bed ; 
told  me,  in  so  many  words,  that  I  was  free  to  walk  in  the 
g-arden  for  half  an  hour  and  no  long-er;  and  retired,  leaving^ 
the  door  open,  that  I  might  avail  myself  of  that  permission. 

I  did  so,  and  did  so  every  morning  of  my  imprisonment, 
which  lasted  five  days.  If  I  could  have  seen  my  mother 
alone,  I  should  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  to  her  and  be- 
soug-ht  her  forg-iveness ;  but  I  saw  no  one.  Miss  Murdstone 
excepted,  during  the  whole  time. 

The  length  of  those  five  days  I  can  convey  no  idea  of  to 
anyone.     They  occupy  the  place  of  years  in  my  remembrance. 

On  the  last  night  of  my  restraint,  I  was  awakened  by 
hearing  my  own  name  spoken  in  a  whisper.  I  started  up  in 
bed,  and,  putting  out  my  arms  in  the  dark,  said : 

**  Is  that  you,  Peggotty?" 

There  was  no  immediate  answer,  but  presently  I  heard 
my  name  again,  in  a  tone  so  very  mysterious  and  awful,  that 
I  think  I  should  have  gone  into  a  fit,  if  it  had  not  occurred 
to  me  that  it  must  have  come  through  the  keyhole. 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  169 

I  groped  my  way  to  the  door,  and,  putting-  my  own  lips 
to  the,  keyhole,  whispered  : 

"Is  that  you,  Peggotty,  dear?" 

"Yes,  my  own  precious  Davy,"  she  replied.  "Be  as 
soft  as  a  mouse,  or  the  cat' 11  hear  us." 

I  understood  this  to  mean  Miss  Murdstone,  and  was 
sensible  of   the  urgency  of  the  case ;   her  room  being  close 

by. 

"How's  mamma,  dear  Pegg-otty?  Is  she  very  angry 
with  me? 

I  could  hear  Peggotty  crying-  softly  on  her  side  of  the 
keyhole,  as  I  was  doing  on  mine,  before  she  answered. 
"No.     Not  very." 

"What  is  going- to  be  done  with  me,  Peggotty,  dear? 
Do  you  know  ?" 

"School.  Near  London,"  was  Peggotty 's  answer.  I  was 
oblig-ed  to  g-et  her  to  repeat  it,  for  she  spoke  it  the  first  time 
quite  down  my  throat  in  consequence  of  my  having-  forgot- 
ten to  take  my  mouth  away  from  the  keyhole  and  put  my 
ear  there  ;  and,  though  her  words  tickled  me  a  good  deal, 
I  didn't  hear  them. 

"When,  Peggotty?" 
To-morrow." 

Is  that  the  reason  why  Miss  Murdstone  took  the 
clothes  out  of  my  drawers?"  which  she  had  done,  though' 
I  had  forgotten  to  mention  it. 

"Yes,"  said  Peggotty.     "Box." 

"Shan't  I  see  mamma?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggotty.     "Morning." 

Then  Peggotty  fitted  her  mouth  close  to  the  keyhole,  and 
delivered  these  words  through  it  with  as  much  feeling  and 
earnestness  as  a  keyhole  has  ever  been  the  medium  of  com- 


(( 

(< 

(< 


170  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

municating',  I  will  venture  to  assert,  shooting  in  each  broken 
little  sentence  in  a  convulsive  little  burst  of  its  own. 

"Davy,  dear.  If  I  ain't  been  azackly  as  intimate  with 
you.  Lately,  as  I  used  to  be.  It  ain't  because  I  don't  love 
you.  Just  as  well  and  more,  my  pretty  poppet.  It's  be- 
cause I  thought  it  better  for  you.  And  for  someone  else 
besides.  Davy,  my  darling,  are  you  listening?  Can 
you  hear?" 

Ye — ye — ye — yes,  Peg-gfotty,"  I  sobbed. 
My  own!"  said  Peggotty,  with  infinite  compassion. 
What  I  want  to  say,  is.  That  you  must  never  forget 
me.  For  I'll  never  forget  you.  And  I'll  take  as  much  care 
of  your  mamma,  Davy.  As  I  ever  took  of  you.  And  I  won't 
leave  her.  The  day  may  come  when  she'll  be  glad  to  lay 
her  poor  head.  On  her  stupid,  cross  old  Peggotty' s  arm 
again.  And  I'll  write  to  you,  my  dear.  Though  I  ain't  no 
scholar.  And  I'll — I'll — "  Peggotty  fell  to  kissing  the  key- 
hole, as  she  couldn't  kiss  me. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Peggotty,"  said  I.  "Oh,  thank  you ! 
Thank  you!  Will  you  promise  me  one  thing,  Peggotty? 
Will  you  write  and  tell  Mr.  Peggotty  and  little  Em'ly  and 
Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Ham  that  I  am  not  so  bad  as  they 
might  suppose,  and  that  I  sent  'em  all  my  love — especially 
to  little  Em'ly?  Will  you,  if  you  please,  Peggotty?" 

The  kind  soul  promised,  and  we  both  of  us  kissed  the 
keyhole  with  the  greatest  affection — I  patted  it  with  my 
hand,  I  recollect,  as  if  it  had  been  her  honest  face — and  parted. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Murdstone  appeared  as  usual,  and 
told  me  I  was  going  to  school ;  which  was  not  altogether 
such  news  to  me  as  she  supposed.  She  also  informed  me 
that  when  I  was  dressed,  I  was  to  come  downstairs  into  the 
parlor  and  have  my  breakfast.     There  I  found  my  mother. 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  171 

very  pale  and  with  red  eyes ;  into  whose  arms  I  ran,  and 
beg-ged  her  pardon  from  my  suffering-  soul. 

"Oh  Davy!"  she  said.  ''That  you  could  hurt  anyone 
I  love!  Try  to  be  better,  pray  to  be  better!  I  forgive  you; 
but  I  am  so  g-rieved,  Davy,  that  you  should  have  such  bad 
passions  in  your  heart." 

Miss  Murdstone  was  g-ood  enoug-h  to  take  me  out  to 
the  cart,  and  to  say  on  the  way  that  she  hoped  I  would 
repent,  before  I  came  to  a  bad  end ;  and  then  I  got  into  the 
cart,  and  the  lazy  horse  walked  off  with  it. 

We  might  have  gone  about  half  a  mile,  and  my  pocket 
handkerchief  was  quite  wet  through,  when  the  carrier 
stopped  short. 

Looking  out  to  ascertain  for  what,  I  saw,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, Peg-gotty  burst  from  a  hedge  and  climb  into  the  cart. 
She  took  me  in  both  her  arms  and  squeezed  me  until  the 
pressure  on  my  nose  was  extremely  painful,  though  I  never 
thought  of  that  until  afterwards,  when  I  found  it  very  tender. 
Not  a  sing-le  word  did  Peg-gotty  speak.  Releasing  one  of 
her  arms,  she  put  it  down  in  her  pocket  to  the  elbow,  and 
brought  out  some  paper-bags  of  cakes,  which  she  crammed 
into  my  pockets,  and  a  purse  which  she  put  into  my  hand, 
but  not  one  word  did  she  say.  After  another  and  a  final 
squeeze  with  both  arms,  she  g^ot  down  from  the  cart  and 
ran  away;  and  my  belief  is,  and  has  always  been,  without  a 
solitary  button  on  her  g-own.  I  picked  up  one,  of  several 
that  was  rolling-  about,  and  treasured  it  as  a  keepsake  for 
a  long  time. 

The  carrier  looked  at  me,  as  if  to  enquire  if  she  were 
coming  back.  I  shook  my  head,  and  said  I  thought  not. 
"Then  come  up!"  said  the  carrier  to  the  lazy  horse,  who 
came  up  accordingly. 


172  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Having"  by  this  time  cried  as  much  as  I  possibly  could, 
I  began  to  think  it  was  of  no  use  crying  any  more,  especially 
as  neither  Roderick  Random  nor  that  captain  in  the  Royal 
British  Navy  had  ever  cried,  that  I  could  remember,  in  try- 
ing situations.  The  carrier  seeing  me  in  this  resolution, 
proposed  that  my  pocket  handkerchief  should  be  spread  upon 
the  horse's  back  to  dry.  I  thanked  him  and  assented;  and 
particularly  small  it  looked  under  those  circumstances. 

I  had  now  leisure  to  examine  the  purse.  It  was  a  stiff 
leather  purse,  with  a  snap,  and  had  three  bright  shillings  in  it, 
which  Peggotty  had  evidently  polished  up  with  whitening, 
for  my  greater  delight.  But  its  precious  contents  were  two 
half-crowns  folded  together  in  a  bit  of  paper,  on  which  was 
written  in  my  mother's  hand,  "  For  Davy.  With  my  love." 
I  was  so  overcome  by  this,  that  I  asked  the  carrier  to  be  so 
good  as  reach  me  my  pocket  handkerchief  again,  but  he 
said  he  thought  I  had  better  do  without  it;  and  I  thought 
I  really  had,  so  I  wiped  my  eyes  on  my  sleeve  and  stopped 
myself. 

For  good,  too;  though  in  consequence  of  my  previous 
emotions,  I  was  still  occasionally  seized  with  a  stormy  sob. 
After  we  had  jogged  on  for  some  little  time,    I  asked   the, 
carrier  if  he  was  going  all  the  way. 

"All  the  way  where?"  inquired  the  carrier. 

"There,"  I  said. 

"Where's  there?"  inquired  the  carrier. 

"  Near  London,"  I  said. 

"Why  that  horse,"  said  the  carrier,  jerking  the  rein  tc 
point  him  out,  "would  be  deader  than  pork  afore  he  gol 
over  half  the  ground." 

"Are  you  only  going  to  Yarmouth  then?"  I  asked. 

"That's   about  it,"    said    the  carrier.     "And    there    I 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIBLD  173 

shall  take  you  to  the  stage-cutch,  and  the  stag-e-cutch  that'll 
take  you  to — wherever  it  is." 

I  shared  my  cakes  with  the  carrier,  who  asked  if  Peg-gotty 
made  them  and  told  him  yes,  she  did  all  our  cooking. 
The  carrier  looked  thoughtful,  and  then  asked  if  I  would 
send  a  message  to  Peggotty  from  him-  I  agreed,  and  the 
message  was  "Barkis  is  willing".'*  While  I  was  waiting-  for 
the  coach  at  Yarmouth,  I  wrote  to  Peggotty  : 

''My  Dear  Peggotty  : — I  have  come  here  safe.  Barkis 
is  willing.      My  love  to  mamma.     Yours  affectionately. 

"P.  S. — He  says  he  particularly  wanted  you  to  know 
Barkis  is  willing !' 

At  Yarmouth  I  found  dinner  was  ordered  for  me,  and 
felt  very  shy  at  having  a  table  all  to  myself,  and  very  much 
alarmed  when  the  waiter  told  me  had  seen  a  gentleman  fall 
down  dead  after  drinking  some  of  their  beer.  I  said  I  would 
have  some  water,  and  was  quite  grateful  to  the  waiter  for 
drinking  the  ale  that  had  been  ordered  for  me,  for  fear  the 
people  of  the  hotel  should  be  offended.  He  also  helped  me  to 
eat  my  dinner,  and  accepted  one  of  my  bright  shillings. 

After  a  long,  tiring  journey  by  the  coach,  for  there  were 
no  trains  in  those  days,  I  arrived  in  London  and  was  taken 
to  the  school  at  Blackheath  by  one  of  the  masters,  Mr.  Mell. 

I  gazed  upon  the  schoolroom  into  which  he  took  me 
as  the  most  forlorn  and  desolate  place  I  had  ever  seen.  I 
see  it  now.  A  long  room,  with  three  long  rows  of  desks, 
and' six  of  forms,  and  bristling-  all  round  with  pegs  for  hats 
and  slates.  Scraps  of  old  copy-books  and  exercises  litter  the 
dirty  floor    . 

Mr.  Mell  havingf  left  me  while  he  took  his  irreparable 
boots  upstairs,  I  went  softly  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room, 


174 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 


observing'  all  this  as  I  crept  alongf.  Suddenly  I  came  upon 
a  pasteboard  placard,  beautifully  written,  which  was  lying- 
on  the  desk,  and  bore  these  words — "Take  care  of  him. 
He  bites. 


[LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  AND  BARKIS. 

I  g-ot  upon  the  desk  immediately,  apprenhensive  of  at 
least  a  great  dog  underneath.  But,  though  I  looked  all 
round  with  anxious  eyes,  I  could  see  nothing  of  him.  I  was 
still  engaged  in  peering  about  when  Mr.  Mell  came  back, 
and  asked  me  what  I  did  up  there. 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  I75 

**I  beg-  your  pardon,  sir,**  says  I,  "  if  you  please,  I'm 
looking  for  the  dog-/* 

*'  Dog,"  says  he.     *' What  dog?" 

"Isn't  it  a  dog,  sir?" 

**  Isn't  what  a  dog?** 

** That's  to  be  taken  care  of,  sir;  that  bites." 

**  No,  Copperfield,"  says  he,  gravely,  **  that's  not  a  dog.' 
That's  a  boy.  My  instructions  are,  Copperfield,  to  put  this 
placard  on  your  back.  I  am  sorry  to  make  such  a  beginning 
with  you,  but  I  must  do  it." 

With  that,  he  took  me  down,  and  tied  the  placard, 
which  was  neatly  constructed  for  the  purpose,  on  my 
shoulders  like  a  knapsack ;  and  wherever  I  went,  afterwards, 
I  had  the  consolation  of  carrying  it. 

What  I  suffered  from  that  placard,  nobody  can  imagine. 
Whether  it  was  possible  for  people  to  see  me  or  not,  I 
always  fancied  that  somebody  was  reading  it.  It  was  no 
relief  to  turn  round  and  find  nobody ;  for  wherever  my  back 
was,  there  I  imagined  somebody  always  to  be. 

There  was  an  old  door  in  this  playground,  on  which  the 
boys  had  a  custom  of  carving  their  names.  It  was  com- 
pletely covered  with  such  inscriptions.  In  my  dread  of  the 
end  of  the  vacation  and  their  coming  back,  I  could  not  read 
one  boy's  name,  without  inquiring  in  what  tone  and  with 
what  emphasis  he  would  read,  ''Take  care  of  him.  He 
bites."  There  was  one  boy — a  certain  J.  Steerforth — who 
cut  his  name  very  deep  and  very  often,  who,  I  conceis/ed, 
would  read  it  in  a  rather  strong  voice,  and  afterwards  pull 
my  hair.  There  was  another  boy,  one  Tommy  Traddles, 
who  I  dreaded  would  make  game  of  it,  and  pretend  to  be 
dreadfully  frightened  of  me.  There  was  a  third,  George 
Demple,  who  I  fancied   would   sing  it.     I   have  looked,   a 


176  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

little  shrinking  creature,  at  that  door,  until  the  owners  of  all 
the  names — there  were  five-and- forty  of  them  in  the  school 
then,  Mr.  Mell  said — seemed  to  send  me  to  Coventry  by 
general  acclamation,  and  to  cry  out,  each  in  his  own  way, 
"Take  care  of  him.     He  bites!  " 

Tommy  Traddles  was  the  first  boy  who  returned.  He 
introduced  himself  by  informing  me  that  I  should  find  his 
name  on  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  gate,  over  the  top  bolt; 
upon  that  I  said,  "Traddles?"  to  which  he  replied,  "The 
same,"  and  then  he  asked  me  for  a  full  account  of  myself 
and  family. 

It  was  a  happy  circumstance  for  me  that  Traddles  came 
back  first.  He  enjoyed  my  placard  so  much  that  he  saved 
me  from  the  embarrassment  of  either  disclosure  or  conceal- 
ment, by  presenting  me  to  every  other  boy  who  came  back, 
great  or  small,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  in  this  form  of 
introduction,  "Look  here!  Here's  a  game!"  Happily,  too, 
the  greater  part  of  the  boys  came  back  low-spirited,  and 
were  not  so  boisterous  at  my  expense  as  I  had  expected. 
Some  of  them  certainly  did  dance  about  me  like  wild 
Indians,  and  the  greater  part  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  pretending  that  I  was  a  dog,  and  patting  and  smoothing 
me  lest  I  should  bite,  and  saying,  "Lie  down,  sir!"  and 
calling  me  Towzer.  This  was  naturally  confusing,  among 
so  many  strangers,  and  cost  me  some  tears,  but  on  the 
whole  it  was  much  better  than  I  had  anticipated. 

I  was  not  considered  as  b^ing  formally  received  into  the 
school,  however,  until  J.  Steerforth  arrived.  Before  this 
boy,  who  was  reputed  to  be  a  great  scholar,  and  was  very 
good-looking,  and  at  least  half-a-dozen  years  my  senior,  I 
was  carried  as  before  a  magistrate.  He  inquired,  under  a 
shed  in  the  playground,  into  the  particulars  ot  my  punish- 


lilTTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  177 

ment,  and  was  pleased  to  express  his  opinion  that  it  was  a 
"jolly  shame;"  for  which  I  became  bound  to  him  ever 
afterwards. 

"What  money  have  you  got,  Copperfield?"  he  said, 
walking-  aside  with  me  when  he  had  disposed  of  my  affair  in 
these  terms. 

I  told  him  seven  shillings. 

"You  had  better  give  it  to  me  to  take  care  of,"  he  said. 
"At  least,  you  can,  if  you  like.  You  needn't  if  you  don't 
like." 

I  hastened  to  comply  with  his  friendly  suggestion,  and, 
opening  Peggotty's  purse,  turned  it  upside  down  into  his 
hand. 

Do  you  want  to  spend  anything  now?"  he  asked  me. 
No,  thank  you,"  I  replied. 

You  can,   if  you  like,    you    know,"    said    Steerforth. 
Say  the  word." 

No,  thank  you,  sir,"  I  repeated. 

Perhaps  you'd  like  to  spend  a  couple  of  shillings  or  so 
in  a  bottle  of  currant  wine  by-and-by,  up  in  the  bedroom?" 
said  Steerforth.     "You  belong  to  my  bedroom,  I  find." 

It  certainly  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  but  I  said, 
"Yes,  I  should  like  that." 

"Very  good,"  said  Steerforth.  "You'll  be  glad  to 
spend  another  shilling  or  so  in  almond  cakes,  I  dare  say?" 

I  said,  "Yes,  I  should  like  that,  too." 

"And  another  shilling  or  so  in  biscuits,  and  another  in 
fruit,  eh?"  said  Steerforth.  "I  say,  young  Copperfield, 
you're  going  it!  " 

I  smiled  because  he  smiled,  but  I  was  a  little  troubled 

in  my  mind,  too. 

" Well !"  said  Steerforth.     "We  must  make  it  stretch 
12 


<  ( 


175  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

as  far  as  we  can;  that's  all.  I'll  do  the  best  in  my  power 
for  you.  I  can  go  out  when  I  like,  and  I'll  smuggle  the 
prog  in."  With  these  words  he  put  the  money  in  his 
pocket,  and  kindly  told  me  not  to  make  myself  uneasy ;  he 
would  take  care  it  should  be  all  right 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  if  that  were  all  right 
which  I  had  a  secret  misgiving  was  nearly  all  wrong — for  I 
feared  it  was  a  waste  of  my  mother's  two  half-crowns — 
though  I  had  preserved  the  piece  of  paper  they  were  wrapped 
in ;  which  was  a  precious  saving.  When  we  went  upstairs 
to  bed,  he  produced  the  whole  seven  shillings*  worth,  and 
laid  it  out  on  my  bed  in  the  moonlight,  saying: 

"There  you  are,  young  Copperfield,  and  a  royal  spread 
you've  got!" 

I  couldn't  think  of  doing  the  honors  of  the  feast  at  my 
time  of  life,  while  he  was  by ;  my  hand  shook  at  the  very 
thought  of  it.  I  begged  him  to  do  me  the  favor  of  presiding ; 
and  my  request  being  seconded  by  the  other  boys  who  were 
in  that  room,  he  acceded  to  it,  and  sat  upon  my  pillow, 
handing  round  the  viands — with  perfect  fairness,  I  must 
say — and  dispensing  the  currant  wine  in  a  little  glass  without 
a  foot,  which  was  his  own  property.  As  to  me,  I  sat  on  his 
left  hand,  and  the  rest  were  grouped  about  us,  on  the  nearest 
beds  and  on  the  floor.  i 

How  well  I  recollect  our  sitting  there,  talking  in 
whispers ;  or  their  talking,  and  my  respectfully  listening,  I 
ought  rather  to  say ;  the  moonlight  falling  a  little  way  into 
the  room,  through  the  window,  painting  a  pale  window  on 
the  floor,  and  the  greater  part  of  us  in  shadow,  except  when 
Steerforth  dipped  a  match  into  a  phosphorus-box,  when  he 
wanted  to  look  for  anything  on  the  board,  and  shed  a  blue 
glare  over  us  that  was  gone  directly.     A  certain  mysterious 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  179 

feeling*,  consequent  on  the  darkness,  the  secrecy  of  the  revel, 
and  the  whisper  in  which  everything  was  said,  steals  over 
me  again,  and  I  listen  to  all  they  tell  me,  with  a  vague  feeling 
of  solemnity  and  awe,  which  makes  me  glad  they  are  all  so 
near,  and  frightens  me  (though  I  feign  to  laugh)  when 
Traddles  pretends  to  see  a  ghost  in  the  corner.  / 

I  heard  all  kinds  of  things  about  the  school  and  all 
belonging  to  it.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Creakle  was  the  sternest 
and  most  severe  of  masters;  that  he  laid  about  him,  right 
and  left,  every  day  of  his  life,  charging  in  among  the  boys 
like  a  trooper,  and  slashing  away,  unmercifully. 

I  heard  that  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  whose  name 
was  Tungay,  was  an  obstinate  barbarian  who  had  formerly 
assisted  in  the  hop  business,  but  had  come  into  the  line  with 
Mr.  Creakle,  in  consequence,  as  was  supposed  among  the 
boys,  of  his  having  broken  his  leg  in  Mr.  Creakle' s  service, 
and  having  done  a  deal  of  dishonest  work  for  him,  and 
knowing  his  secrets. 

But  the  greatest  wonder  that  I  heard  of  Mr.  Creakle 
was,  there  being  one  boy  in  the  school  on  whom  he  never 
ventured  to  lay  a  hand,  and  that  boy  being  J.  Steerforth. 
Steerforth  himself  confirmed  this  when  it  was  stated,  and 
said  that  he  should  like  to  begin  to  see  him  do  it.  On  being 
asked  by  a  mild  boy  (not  me)  how  he  would  proceed  if  he 
did  begin  to  see  him  do  it,  he  dipped  a  match  into  his  phos- 
phorus-box on  purpose  to  shed  a  glare  over  his  reply,  and 
said  he  would  commence  with  knocking  him  down  with  a 
blow  on  the  forehead  from  the  seven-and-six-penny  ink-bottle 
that  was  always  on  the  mantelpiece.  We  sat  in  the  dark  for 
some  time,  breathless. 

I  heard  that  Miss  Creakle  was  regarded  by  the  school  in 
general  as  being  in  love  with  Steerforth ;  and  I  am  sure,  as 


i8o  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  sat  in  the  dark,  thinking'  of  his  nice  voice,  and  his  fine  face, 
and  his  easy  manner,  and  his  curling  hair,  I  thought  it  very 
likely.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Mell  was  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow, 
but  hadn't  a  sixpence  to  bless  himself  with;  and  that  there 
was  no  doubt  that  old  Mrs.  Mell,  his  mother,  was  as  poor 
as  Job. 

One  day,  Traddles  (the  most  unfortunate  boy  in  the 
world)  breaks  a  window  accidentally  with  a  ball.  I  shudder 
at  this  moment  with  the  tremendous  sensation  of  seeing-  it 
done,  and  feeling"  that  the  ball  has  bounded  on  to  Mr. 
Creakle's  sacred  head. 

Poor  Traddles !  In  a  tight  sky-blue  suit  that  made  his 
arms  and  legs  like  German  sausages,  or  roly-poly  puddings, 
he  was  the  merriest  and  most  miserable  of  all  the  boys.  He 
was  always  being"  caned — I  think  he  was  caned  every  day 
that  half-year,  except  one  holiday  Monday,  when  he  was  only 
rulered  on  both  hands — and  was  always  going  to  write  to  his 
uncle  about  it,  and  never  did.  After  laying  his  head  on  the 
desk  for  a  little  while,  he  would  cheer  up  somehow,  begin  to 
laugh  again,  and  draw  skeletons  all  over  his  slate  before  his 
eyes  were  dry.  I  used  at  first  to  wonder  what  comfort 
Traddles  found  in  drawing-  skeletons.  But  I  believe  he  only 
did  it  because  they  were  easy,  and  didn't  want  any  features. 

He  was  very  honorable,  Traddles  was ;  and  held  it  as  a 
Solemn  duty  in  the  boys  to  stand  by  one  another.  He  suf- 
fered for  this  on  several  occasions ;  and  particularly  once, 
when  Steerforth  laughed  in  church,  and  the  beadle  thought  it 
was  Traddles,  and  took  him  out.  I  see  him  now,  going"  away 
in  custody,  despised  by  the  congregation.  He  never  said 
who  was  the  real  offender,  though  he  smarted  for  it  next  day, 
and  was  imprisoned  so  many  hours  that  he  came  forth  with 
a  whole  churchyard  full  of  skeletons  swarming  all  over  his 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  l8l 

Latin  Dictionary.  But  he  had  his  reward.  Steerforth  said 
there  was  nothing-  of  the  sneak  in  Traddles,  and  we  all  felt 
that  to  be  the  highest  praise.  For  my  part,  I  could  have 
Ig-one  throug-h  a  great  deal  (thoug-h  I  was  much  less  brave 
than  Traddles,  and  nothing  like  so  old)  to  have  won  such  a 
recompense. 

To  see  Steerforth  walk  to  church  before  us,  arm-in-arm 
with  Miss  Creakle,  was  one  of  the  g-reat  sights  of  my  life. 
I  didn't  think  Miss  Creakle  equal  to  little  Em'ly  in  point  of 
beauty,  and  I  didn't  love  her  (I  didn't  dare);  but  I  thought 
her  a  young-  lady  of  extraordinary  attractions,  and  in  point 
of  gentility  not  to  be  surpassed.  When  Steerforth,  in  white 
trousers,  carried  her  parasol  for  her,  I  felt  proud  to  know 
him ;  and  believed  that  she  could  not  choose  but  adore  him 
with  all  her  heart.  Mr.  Sharp  and  Mr.  Mell  were  both 
notable  personages  in  my  eyes ;  but  Steerforth  was  to  them 
what  the  sun  was  to  two  stars. 

An  accidental  circumstance  cemented  the  intimacy  be- 
tween Steerforth  and  me,  in  a  manner  that  inspired  me  with 
g-reat  pride  and  satisfaction,  though  it  sometimes  led  to  in- 
convenience. It  happened  on  one  occasion,  when  he  was 
doing  me  the  honor  of  talking  to  me  in  the  playground,  that 
I  hazarded  the  observation  that  something-  or  somebody — I 
forget  what  now — was  like  something-  or  somebody  in  Pere- 
jgrine  Pickle.  He  said  nothing-  at  the  time  ;  but  when  I  was 
going  to  bed  at  night,  asked  me  if  I  had  g-ot  that  book. 

I  told  him  no,  and  explained  how  it  was  that  I  had  read 
it,  and  all  those  other  books  of  which  I  had  made  mention. 
'And  do  you  recollect  them?"  Steerforth  said. 
Oh,  yes,"  I  replied;   I  had  a  g-ood  memory,  and  I  be- 
lieved I  recollected  them  very  well 

Then  I  tell  you  what,  young  Copperfield,"  said  Stcet 


<  ( 


<  ( 


i»2  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

forth,"  you  shall  tell  'em  to  me.  I  can't  g-et  to  sleep  very 
early  at  nig-ht,  and  I  g^enerally  wake  rather  early  in  the 
morning'.  We'll  go  over  *em  one  after  another.  We'll  make 
some  regular  Arabian  Nights  of  it." 

I  felt  extremely  flattered  by  this  arrangement,  and  we 
commenced  carrying-  it  into  execution  that  very  evening-. 

Steerforth  showed  his  consideration  in  one  particular 
instance ;  in  an  unflinching-  manner  that  was  a  little  tantal- 
izing-, I  suspect,  to  poor  Traddles  and  the  rest.  Peggotty's 
promised  letter — what  a  comfortable  letter  it  was  ! — arrived 
before  "the  half"  was  many  weeks  old;  and  with  it  a  cake 
in  a  perfect  nest  of  oranges,  and  two  bottles  of  cowslip  wine. 
This  treasure,  as  in  duty  bound,  I  laid  at  the  feet  of  Steer- 
forth,  and  begged  him  to  dispense. 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  young  Copperfield,"  said  he, 
"the  wine  shall  be  kept  to  wet  your  whistle  when  you  are 
story-telling." 

I  blushed  at  the  idea,  and  begged  him,  in  my  modesty, 
not  to  think  of  it.  But  he  said  he  had  observed  I  was  some- 
times hoarse — a  little  roopy  was  his  exact  expression — and 
it  should  be,  every  drop,  devoted  to  the  purpose  he  had 
mentioned.  Accordingly,  it  was  locked  up  in  his  box,  and 
drawn  off  by  himself  in  a  phial,  and  administered  to  me 
through  a  piece  of  quill  in  the  cork,  when  I  was  supposed  to 
be  in  want  of  a  restorative.  Sometimes,  to  make  it  a  more 
sovereign  specific,  he  was  so  kind  as  to  squeeze  orange 
juice  into  it,  or  to  stir  it  up  with  ginger,  or  dissolve  a  pep- 
permint drop  in  it. 

We  seem  to  me  to  have  been  months  over  Peregrine, 
and  months  more  over  the  other  stories.  The  institution 
never  flagged  for  want  of  a  story,  I  am  certain ;  and  the 
wine  lasted  out  almost  as  well  as  the  matter.     Poor  Trad- 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  183 

dies — I  never  think  of  that  boy  but  with  a  strange  disposi- 
tion to  laugh,  and  with  tears  in  my  eyes — was  a  sort  of 
chorus,  in  general;  and  affected  to  be  convulsed  with  mirth 
at  the  comic  parts,  and  to  be  overcome  with  fear  when  there 
was  any  passage  of  an  alarming  character  in  the  narrative. 
This  rather  put  me  out  very  often.  It  was  a  great  jest  of 
his,  I  recollect,  to  pretend  that  he  couldn't  keep  his  teeth 
from  chattering,  whenever  mention  was  made  of  an  Alguazil 
in  connection  with  the  adventures  of  Gil  Bias ;  and  I  remem- 
ber when  Gil  Bias  met  the  captain  of  the  robbers  in  Madrid, 
this  unlucky  joker  counterfeited  such  an  ague  of  terror  that 
he  was  overheard  by  Mr.  Creakle,  who  was  prowling  about 
the  passage,  and  handsomely  flogged  for  disorderly  conduct 
in  the  bedroom. 

One  day  I  had  a  visit  from  Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham,  who 
had  brought  two  enormous  lobsters,  a  huge  crab,  and  a 
large  canvas  bag  of  shrimps,  as  they  "remembered  I  was 
partial  to  a  relish  with  my  meals." 

I  was  proud  to  introduce  my  friend  Steerforth  to  these 
kind,  simple  friends,  and  told  them  how  good  Steerforth 
was  to  me,  and  how  he  helped  me  with  my  work  and  took 

fare  of  me,  and  Steerforth  delighted  the  fishermen  with  his 
riendly,  pleasant  manners. 

The  "relish"  was  much  appreciated  by  the  boys  at  sup- 
per that  night.  Only  poor  Traddles  became  very  ill  from 
eating  crab  so  late. 

At  last  the  holidays  came,  and  I  went  home.  The  car- 
rier, Barkis,  met  me  at  Yarmouth,  and  was  rather  gruff, 
which  I  soon  found  out  was  because  he  had  not  had  any 
answer  to  his  message.  I  promised  to  ask  Peggotty  for 
one. 

Ah,  what  a  strange  feeling   it  was  to  be  going  home 


I84  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

when  it  was  not  home,  and  to  find  that  every  object  I  locked 
at  reminded  me  of  the  happy  old  home,  which  was  like  a 
dream  I  could  never  dream  again ! 

God  knows  how  infantine  the  memory  may  have  been 
that  was  awakened  within  me  by  the  sound  of  my  mother's 
voice  in  the  old  parlor,  when  I  set  foot  in  the  hall. 

I  believed,  from  the  solitary  and  thoughtful  way  in 
which  my  mother  murmured  her  song-,  that  she  was  alone. 
And  I  went  softly  into  the  room.  She  was  sitting-  by  the 
fire,  nursing  an  infant,  whose  tiny  hand  she  held  against 
her  neck.  Her  eyes  were  looking  down  upon  its  face,  and 
she  sat  singing  to  it.  I  was  so  far  right,  that  she  had  no 
other  companion. 

I  spoke  to  her,  and  she  started,  and  cried  out.  But 
seeing  me,  she  called  me  her  dear  Davy,  her  own  boy ;  and 
coming  half  across  the  room  to  meet  me,  kneeled  down  upon 
the  ground  and  kissed  me,  and  laid  my  head  down  on  her 
bosom  near  the  little  creature  that  was  nestling  there,  and 
put  its  hand  up  to  my  lips. 

I  wish  I  had  died.  I  wish  I  had  died  then,  with  that 
feeling  in  my  heart!  I  should  have  been  more  fit  for 
heaven  than  I  ever  have  been  since. 

*' He  is  your  brother,"  said  my  mother,  fondling  me.' 
"Davy,  my  pretty  boy!  My  poor  child!"  Then  she 
kissed  me  more  and  more,  and  clasped  me  round  the  neck. 
This  she  was  doing  when  Peggotty  came  running  in,  and 
bounced  down  on  the  ground  beside  us  and  went  mad  about 
us  both  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

We  had  a  very  happy  afternoon  the  day  I  came.  Mr. 
and  Miss  Murdstone  were  out,  and  I  sat  with  my  mother 
and  Peggotty,  and  told  them  all  about  my  school  and  Steer- 
forth,   and  took  the  little  baby  in  my  arms  and  nursed  it 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  185 

loving-ly.  But  when  the  Murdstones  came  back  I  was  more 
unhappy  than  ever. 

I  felt  uncomfortable  about  gfoing*  down  to  breakfast  in 
the  morning-,  as  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  Mr.  Murdstone 
since  the  day  when  I  committed  my  memorable  offense. 
However,  as  it  must  be  done,  I  went  down,  after  two  or  three 
false  starts  half-way,  and  as  many  runs  back  on  tiptoe  to 
my  own  room,  and  presented  myself  in  the  parlor. 

He  was  standing-  before  the  fire  with  his  back  to  it, 
while  Miss  Murdstone  made  the  tea.  He  looked  at  me 
steadily  as  I  entered,  but  made  no  sign  of  recognition 
whatever. 

I  went  up  to  him,  after  a  moment  of  confusion,  and 
said,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  am  very  sorry  for  what  I 
did,  and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  sorry,  David,"  he  replied. 

The  hand  he  gave  me  was  the  hand  I  had  bitten.  I 
could  not  restrain  my  eye  from  restingf  for  an  instant  on  a 
red  spot  upon  it. 

**  How  do  you  do,  ma'am?"   I  said  to  Miss  Murdstone. 

**Ah,  dear  me!"  sighed  Miss  Murdstone,  g-iving-  me 
the  tea-caddy  scoop  instead  of  her  fingers.  "How  long  are 
the  holidays?" 

*'A  month,  ma'am." 

"Counting  from  when?" 

"  From  to-day,  ma'am."  , 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Murdstone.   "Then  here's  <?;/^  day  off." 

She  kept  a  calendar  of  the  holidays  in  this  way,  and 
every  morning  checked  a  day  off  in  exactly  the  same  manner. 
She  did  it  gloomily  until  she  came  to  ten,  but  when  she  g-ot 
into  two  figures  she  became  more  hopeful,  and,  as  the  time 
advanced,  even  jocular. 


i86  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Thus  the  holidays  lag-g-ed  away,  until  the  morning-  came 
when  Miss  Murdstone  said:  ''Here's  the  last  day  off!  "  and 
gave  me  the  closing  cup  of  tea  of  the  vacation. 

I  was  not  sorry  to  go.  Again  Mr.  Barkis  appeared  at 
the  gate,  and  again  Miss  Murdstone  in  her  warning  voice 
said:  "Clara!"  when  my  mother  bent  over  me,  to  bid  me 
farewell. 

I  kissed  her  and  my  baby  brother;  it  is  not  so  much 
the  embrace  she  gave  me  that  lives  in  my  mind,  though  it 
was  as  fervent  as  could  be,  as  what  followed  the  embrace. 

I  was  in  the  carrier's  cart  when  I  heard  her  calling  to 
me.  I  looked  out,  and  she  stood  at  the  garden  gate  alone, 
holding  her  baby  up  in  her  arms  for  me  to  see.  It  was  cold, 
still  weather ;  and  not  a  hair  of  her  head,  or  fold  of  her  dress, 
was  stirred,  as  she  looked  intently  at  me,  holding  up  her  child. 

So  I  lost  her.  So  I  saw  her  afterwards,  in  my  sleep  at 
school — a  silent  presence  near  my  bed — looking  at  me  with 
the  same  intent  face — holding  up  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

About  two  months  after  I  had  been  back  at  school  I 
was  sent  for  one  day  to  go  into  the  parlor.  I  hurried  joy- 
fully, for  it  was  my  birthday,  and  I  thought  it  might  be  a 
hamper  from  Peggotty — but,  alas !  no;  it  was  very  sad  news 
Mrs.  Creakle  had  to  give  me — my  dear  mamma  had  died! 
Mrs.  Creakle  was  very  kind  and  gentle  to  me,  and  the  boys, 
especially  Traddles,  were  very  sorry  for  me. 

I  went  home  the  next  day,  and  heard  that  the  dear  baby 
had  died  too.  Peggotty  received  me  with  great  tenderness, 
and  told  me  about  my  mother's  illness  and  how  she  had 
sent  a  loving  message  to  me. 

"  Tell  my  dearest  boy  that  his  mother,  as  she  lay  here, 
blessed  him  not  once,  but  a  thousand  times,"  and  she 
had  prayed  to  God  to  protect  and  keep  her  fatherless  boy. 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  187 

Mr.  Murdstonc  did  not  take  any  notice  of  me,  nor  had 

Miss  Murdstone  a  word  of  kindness  for  me.     Pegg-otty  was 

to  leave  in  a  month,  and,  to  my  great  joy,   I  was  allowed  to 

go  with  her  on  a  visit  to   Mr.    Peggotty.     On  our  way  I 

found    out   that   the   mysterious   message   I    had   given  to 

Peggotty   meant   that  Barkis    wanted   to    marry   her,    and 

Peggotty   had   consented.      Everyone    in    Mr.    Peggotty's 

cottage  was  pleased  to  see  me,  and  did  their  best  to  comfort 

me.     Little  Em'ly  was  at  school  when  I  arrived,  and  I  went 

out  to  meet  her.     I  knew  the  way  by  which  she  would  come, 

and  presently  found  myself  strolling  along  the  path  to  meet  her. 

A  figure  appeared   in  the  distance  before  long,   and  I 

soon  knew  it  to  be  Em'ly,  who  was  a   little  creature  still  in 

stature,  though  she  was  grown.     But  when  she  drew  nearer, 

and  I  saw  her  blue  eyes  looking  bluer,  and  her  dimpled  face 

looking  brighter,   and   her  own   self  prettier  and  gayer,   a 

curious  feeling  came  over  me  that  made  me  pretend  not  to 

know  her,  and  pass  by  as  if  I  were  looking  at  something  a 

long  way  off.     I  have  done  such  a  thing  since  in  later  life, 

or  I  am  mistaken. 

Little  Em'ly  didn't  care  a  bit.     She  saw  me  well  enough; 
but  instead  of  turning  round  and  calling  after  me,  ran  away 
laughing.     This  obliged  me  to  run  after  her,  and  she  ran  so 
fast  that  we  were  very  near  the  cottage  before  I  caught  her. 
"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?'*  said  little  Em'ly. 
"Why,  you  knew  who  it  was,  Em'ly,**  said  1, 
"And  didn't  _:j/^^  know  who  it  was?'*   said   Em'ly.     I 
was  going  to  kiss  her,  but  she  covered  her  cherry  lips  with 
her  hands,  and  said  she  wasn't  a  baby  now,   and  ran  away, 
laughing  more  than  ever,  into  the  house. 

She  seemed   to   delight  in  teasing  me,    which  was   a 
change  in  her  I  wondered  at  very  much.     The  tea-table  was 


188  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

ready,  and  our  little  locker  was  put  out  in  its  old  place,  but 
instead  of  coming"  to  sit  by  me,  she  went  and  bestowed  her 
company  upon  that  grumbling  Mrs.  Gummidge;  and  on  Mr. 
Peg-g-otty's  inquiring  why,  rumpled  her  hair  all  over  her  face 
to  hide  it,  and  would  do  nothing  but  laugh. 

"A  little  puss  it  is!'*  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  patting  her 
with  his  great  white  hand. 

*'Ah,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  running  his  fingers  through 
her  bright  curls,  "here's  another  orphan,  you  see  sir,  and, 
here,"  giving  Ham  a  back-handed  knock  in  the  chest,  "is 
another  of  'em,  though  he  don't  look  much  like  it." 

"If  I  ha.d  you  for  a  guardian,  Mr.  Peggotty,"  said  I, 
**I  don't  think  I  should y^^/  much  like  it." 

Em'ly  was  confused  by  our  all  observing  her,  and 
hung  down  her  head,  and  her  face  was  covered  with  blushes. 
Glancing  up  presently  through  her  stray  curls,  and  seeing 
that  we  were  all  looking  at  her  still  (I  am  sure  I,  for  one,  could 
have  looked  at  her  for  hours) ,  she  ran  away  and  kept  away 
till  it  was  nearly  bedtime. 

I  lay  down  in  the  old  little  bed  in  the  stern  of  the  boat 
and  the  wind  came  moaning  on  across  the  flat  as  it  had  done 
before.  But  I  could  not  help  fancying  now  that  it  moaned 
of  those  who  were  gone ;  and  instead  of  thinking  that  the  sea 
might  rise  in  the  night  and  float  the  boat  away,  I  thought  of 
the  sea  that  had  risen,  since  I  last  heard  those  sounds,  and 
drowned  my  happy  home.  I  recollect,  as  the  wind  and  water 
began  to  sound  fainter  in  my  ears,  putting  a  short  clause  into 
my  prayers,  petitioning  that  I  might  grow  up  to  marry 
little  Em'ly,  and  so  dropping  lovingly  asleep. 

During  this  visit  Peggotty  was  married  to  Mr.  Barkis, 
and  had  a  nice  little  house  of  her  own,  and  I  spent  the  night 
before  I  was  to  return  home  in  a  little  room  in  the  roof. 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERPlELD  189 


Young-  or  old,  Davy  dear,  so  long-  as  I  have  this  house 
over  my  head,"  said  Peggotty,  'Vou  shall  find  it  as  if  I 
expected  you  here  directly  every  minute.  I  shall  keep  it  as  I 
used  to  keep  your  old  little  room,  my  darling,  and  if  you 
was  to  go  to  China  you  might  think  of  its  being  kept  just 
the  same  all  the  time  you  were  away." 

I  felt  how  good  and  true  a  friend  she  was,  and  thanked 
her  as  well  as  I  could,  for  the>  had  broug-ht  me  to  the  gate 
of  my  home,  and  Peggotty  had  me  clasped  in  her  arms. 

I  was  poor  and  lonely  at  home,  with  no  one  near  to 
speak  a  loving-  word,  or  a  face  to  look  on  with  love  or  liking-, 
only  the  two  persons  who  had  broken  my  mother's  heart. 
How  utterly  wretched  and  forlorn  I  felt !  I  found  I  was  not 
to  g-o  back  to  school  any  more,  and  wandered  about  sad  and 
solitary,  neglected  and  uncared  for.  Peggotty' s  weekly  visits 
were  my  only  comfort.  I  longed  to  g-o  to  school,  however 
hard  an  one,  to  be  taught  something-  anyhow,  anywhere — 
but  no  one  took  any  pains  with  me,  and  I  had  no  friends 
near  who  could  help  me. 

At  last  one  day,  after  some  weary  months  had  passed, 
Mr.  Murdstone  told  me  I  was  to  g-o  to  London  and  earn  my 
own  living.  There  was  a  place  for  me  at  Murdstone  & 
Grinby's,  a  firm  in  the  wine  trade.  My  lodg-ingf  and  clothes 
would  be  provided  for  me  by  my  step-father,  and  I  would 
earn  enoug-h  for  my  food  and  pocket  money.  The  next  day 
I  was  sent  up  to  London  with  the  manager,  dressed  in  a 
shabby  little  white  hat  with  black  crape  round  it  for  my 
mother,  a  black  jacket,  and  hard,  stiff  corduroy  trousers,  a 
little  fellow  of  ten  years  old,  to  fight  my  own  battles  with  the 
world. 

My  place,  I  found,  was  one  of  the  lowest  in  the  firm  of 
Murdstone  &  Gnnoy,  witn  boys  01  no  education  and  in  quite 


I90  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

an  inferior  station  to  myself — my  duties  were  to  wash  the 
bottles,  stick  on  labels,  and  so  on.  I  was  utterly  miserable 
at  being-  degraded  in  this  way,  when  I  thought  of  my  former 
companions,  Steerforth  and  Traddles,  and  my  hopes  of  becom- 
ingf  a  learned  and  disting-uished  man,  and  shed  bitter  tears, 
as  I  feared  I  would  forget  all  I  had  learnt  at  school.  My 
lodging,  one  bare  little  room,  was  in  the  house  of  some 
people  named  Micawber,  shiftless,  careless,  good-natured 
people,  who  were  always  in  debt  and  difficulties.  I  felt  great 
pity  for  their  misfortunes  and  did  what  I  could  to  help  poor 
Mrs.  Micawber  to  sell  her  books  and  other  little  things  she 
could  spare,  to  buy  food  for  herself,  her  husband,  and  their  four 
children.  I  was  too  young"  and  childish  to  know  how  to  pro- 
vide properly  for  myself,  and  often  found  I  was  obliged  to  live 
on  bread  and  slices  of  cold  pudding-  at  the  end  of  the  week.  If 
I  had  not  been  a  very  innocent-minded,  good  little  boy,  I  might 
easily  have  fallen  into  bad  ways  at  this  time.  But  God  took 
care  of  me  and  kept  me  from  harm.  I  would  not  even  tell 
Peg-gotty  how  miserable  I  was,  for  fear  of  distressing  her. 
The  troubles  of  the  Micawbers  increased  more  and  more, 
until  at  last  they  were  obliged  to  leave  London.  I  was  very 
sad  at  this,  for  I  had  been  with  them  so  long  that  I  felt  they 
were  my  friends,  and  the  prospect  of  being  once  more  utterly 
alone,  and  having  to  find  a  lodging  with  strangers,  made  me 
so  unhappy  that  I  determined  to  endure  this  sort  of  life  no 
longer.  The  last  Sunday  the  Micawbers  were  in  town  I  dined 
with  them.  I  had  bought  a  spotted  horse  for  their  little  boy 
and  a  doll  for  the  little  girl,  and  had  saved  up  a  shilling-  for 
the  poor  servant-girl.  After  I  had  seen  them  off  the  next 
morning  by  the  coach,  I  wrote  to  Peggotty  to  ask  her  if  she 
knew  where  my  aunt.  Miss  Betsy  Trotwood,  lived,  and  to 
borrow  half-a-guinea ;  for  I  had  resolved  to  run  away  from 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  191 

Murdstone  &  Grinby's,  and  g"0  to  this  aunt  and  tell  her  my 
story.  I  remembered  my  mother  telling*  me  of  her  visit  when 
I  was  a  baby,  and  that  she  fancied  Miss  Betsy  had  stroked 
her  hair  gently,  and  this  gfave  me  courage  to  appeal  to  her. 
Peg-gfotty  wrote,  enclosing  the  half-guinea,  and  saying  she 
only  knew  Miss  Trotwood  lived  near  Dover,  but  whether  in 
that  place  itself  or  at  Folkestone,  Sandgate,  or  Hythe,  she 
could  not  tell.  Hearing  that  all  these  places  were  close  to- 
gether, I  made  up  my  mind  to  start.  As  I  had  received  my 
week's  wages  in  advance,  I  waited  till  the  following  Satur- 
day, thinking  it  would  not  be  honest  to  go  before.  I  went 
out  to  look  for  someone  to  carry  my  box  to  the  coach  office, 
and  unfortunately  employed  a  wicked  young  man  who  not 
only  ran  off  with  the  box,  but  robbed  me  of  my  half-guinea, 
leaving  me  in  dire  distress.  In  despair,  I  started  off  to  walk 
to  Dover,  and  was  forced  to  sell  my  waistcoat  to  buy  some 
bread.  The  first  night  I  found  my  way  to  my  old  school  at 
Blackheath,  and  slept  on  a  haystack  close  by,  feeling  some 
comfort  in  the  thought  of  the  boys  being  near.  I  knew 
Steerforth  had  left,  or  I  would  have  tried  to  see  him. 

On  I  trudged  the  next  day  and  sold  my  jacket  at  Chat- 
ham to  a  dreadful  old  man,  who  kept  me  waiting  all  day  for 
the  money,  which  was  only  one  shilling  and  fourpence.  I 
was  afraid  to  buy  anything  but  bread  or  to  spend  any  money 
on  a  bed  or  a  shelter  for  the  night,  and  was  terribly  fright- 
ened by  some  rough  tramps,  who  threw  stones  at  me  when  I 
did  not  answer  to  their  calls.  After  six  days,  I  arrived  at 
Dover,  ragged,  dusty  and  half-dead  with  hunger  and  fatigue. 
But  here,  at  first,  I  could  get  no  tidings  of  my  aunt,  and,  in 
despair,  was  going  to  try  some  of  the  other  places  Peggotty 
had  mentioned,  when  the  driver  of  a  fly  dropped  his  horse- 
cloth, and  as  I  was  handing  it  up  to  him,  I  saw  something 


192  LITTLE  DAVID  OOPPERFIELD 

kind  in  the  man's  face  that  encouraged  me  to  ask  once  more 
if  he  knew  where  Miss  Trotwood  lived. 

The  man  directed  me  towards  some  houses  on  the 
heights,  and  thither  I  toiled.  Going-  into  a  little  shop,  I  by 
chance  met  with  Miss  Trotwood's  maid,  who  showed  me  the 
house,  and  went  in  leaving  me  standing  at  the  gate,  a  forlorn 
little  creature,  without  a  jacket  or  waistcoat,  my  white  hat 
crushed  out  of  shape,  my  shoes  worn  out,  my  shirt  and 
trousers  torn  and  stained,  my  pretty  curly  hair  tangled,  my 
face  and  hands  sunburnt  and  covered  with  dust.  Lifting  my 
eyes  to  one  of  the  windows  above,  I  saw  a  pleasant-faced 
gentleman  with  gray  hair,  who  nodded  at  me  several  times, 
then  shook  his  head  and  went  away.  I  was  just  turning 
away  to  think  what  I  should  do,  when  a  tall,  erect,  eldery 
lady,  with  a  gardening  apron  on  and  a  knife  in  her  hand, 
came  out  of  the  house,  and  began  to  dig  up  a  root  in  the 
garden. 

"Go  away,"  she  said.     "Go  away.     No  boys  here." 

But  I  felt  desperate.  Going  in  softly,  I  stood  beside 
her  and  touched  her  with  my  finger,  and  said,  timidly,  "If 

you  please,  ma'am "  and  when  she  looked  up,  I  went 

on — 

Please,  aunt,  I  am  your  nephew!" 
Oh,  Lord!"  she  exclaimed  in  astonishment,  and  sat 
flat  down  on  the  path,  staring  at  me,  while  I  went  on — 

"I  am  David  Copperfield,  of  Blunderstone,  in  Suffolk, 
where  you  came  the  night  I  was  born,  and  saw  my  dear 
mamma.  I  have  been  very  unhappy  since  she  died.  I  have 
been  slighted  and  taught  nothing,  and  thrown  upon  myself, 
and  put  to  work  not  fit  for  me.  It  made  me  run  away  to 
you.  I  was  robbed  at  first  starting  out  and  have  walked  all 
the  way,  and  have  never  slept  in  a  bed  since  I  began  the 


IjITTXiE  DAVID  COPPERFlELiD 


193 


journey.'*  Here  I  broke  into  a  passion  of  crying",  and  my 
aunt  jumped  up  and  took  me  into  the  house,  where  she 
opened  a  cupboard  and  took  out  some  bottles,  pouring 
some  of  the  contents  of  each  into  my  mouth,  not  noticing"  in 
her  agitation  what  they  were,  for  I  fancied  I  tasted  anise- 
seed  water,  anchovy  sauce  and  salad  dressing!     Then  shei 


"WELL,  IF  1  "WAS  YOU  I  SHOULD  WASH  HIM,"  SAID  MR.  DICK. 


put  me  on  the  sofa  and  sent  the  servant  to  ask  Mr.  Dick*' 
to  come  down.  The  gentleman  whom  I  had  seen  at  the 
window  came  in  and  was  told  by  Miss  Trotwood  who  the 
ragged    little  object  on  the  sofa  was,  and  she   finished  by 


saymg — 


194  LITTLE  DAVID    COPPERFIELD 

"Now  here  you  see  youngf  David  Copperfield,  and  the 
question  is  what  shall  I  do  with  him?" 

"Do  with  him?"  answered  Mr.  Dick.  Then,  after 
some  consideration,  and  looking-  at  me,  he  said,  "WeW,  if  I 
was  you  I  should  wash  him !  " 

Miss  Trotwood  was  quite  pleased  at  this,  and  a  warm 
bath  was  g^ot  ready  at  once,  after  which  I  was  dressed  in  a 
shirt  and  trousers  belonging-  to  Mr.  Dick  (for  Janet  had 
burnt  my  rags) ,  rolled  up  in  several  shawls,  and  put  on  the 
sofa  till  dinner-time,  where  I  slept,  and  woke  with  the  im- 
pression that  my  aunt  had  come  and  put  my  hair  off  my 
face,  and  murmured,  "  Pretty  fellow,  poor  fellow." 

After  dinner  I  had  to  tell  my  story  all  over  again  to  my 
aunt  and  Mr.  Dick.  Miss  Trotwood  again  asked  Mr.  Dick's 
advice,  and  was  delighted  when  that  gentleman  suggested  I 
should  be  put  to  bed.  I  knelt  down  to  say  my  prayers  that 
night  in  a  pleasant  room  facing  the  sea,  and  as  I  lay  in  the 
clean,  snow-white  bed  I  felt  so  grateful  and  comforted  that 
I  prayed  earnestly  I  might  never  be  homeless  again,  and 
might  never  forget  the  homeless. 

The  next  morning  my  aunt  told  me  she  had  written  to 
Mr.  Murdstone.  I  was  alarmed  to  think  that  my  step-father 
knew  where  I  was,  and  exclaimed — 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  if  I  have  to  go  back 
to  Mr.  Murdstone!'* 

But  my  aunt  said  nothing  of  her  intentions,  and  I  was 
uncertain  what  was  to  become  of  me.  I  hoped  she  might 
befriend  me. 

At  last  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  arrived.  To  Miss 
Betsy's  great  indignation,  Miss  Murdstone  rode  a  donkey 
across  the  green  in  front  of  the  house,  and  stopped  at  the 
^ate.     Nothing  made  Miss  Trotwood  so  angry  as   to  see 


lilTTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD  195 

donkeys  on  that  green,  and  I  had  already  seen   several  bat- 
tles between  my  aunt  or  Janet  and  the  donkey  boys. 

After  driving  away  the  donkey  and  the  boy  who  had 
dared  to  bring  it  there,  Miss  Trotwood  received  her  visitors. 
She  kept  me  near  her,  fenced  in  with  a  chair. 

Mr.  Murdstone  told  Miss  Betsy  that  I  was  a  very  bad, 
stubborn,  violent-tempered  boy,  whom  he  had  tried  to  im- 
prove, but  could  not  succeed ;  that  he  had  put  me  in  a  re- 
spectable business  from  which  I  had  run  away.  If  Miss 
Trotwood  chose  to  protect  and  encourage  me  now,  she  must 
do  it  always,  for  he  had  come  to  fetch  me  away  there  and 
then,  and  if  I  was  not  ready  to  come,  and  Miss  Trotwood 
did  not  wish  to  give  me  up  to  be  dealt  with  exactly  as  Mr. 
Murdstone  liked,  he  would  cast  me  off  for  always,  and  have 
no  more  to  do  with  me. 

"Are  you  ready  to  go,  David?"  asked  my  aunt. 

But  I  answered  no,  and  begged  and  prayed  her  for  my 
father's  sake  to  befriend  and  protect  me,  for  neither  Mr.  nor 
Miss  Murdstone  had  ever  liked  me  or  been  kind  to  me  and 
had  made  my  mamma,  who  always  loved  me  dearly,  very 
unhappy  about  me,  and  I  had  been  very  miserable. 

"Mr.  Dick,"  said  Miss  Trotwood,  "what  shall  I  do 
with  this  child  ?  " 

Mr.  Dick  considered.  "Have  him  measured  for  a  suit 
of  clothes  directly." 

"Mr.  Dick,"  said  Miss  Trotwood,  "your  commonsense 
is  invaluable." 

Then  she  pulled  me  towards  her,  and  said  to  Mr.  Murd- 
stone, "You  can  go  when  you  like.  I'll  take  my  chance 
with  the  boy.  If  he's  all  you  say  he  is  I  can  at  least  do  as 
much  for  him  as  you  have  done.  But  I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it" 


196  LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Then  she  told  Mr.  Murdstone  what  she  thought  of  the 
way  he  had  treated  me  and  my  mother,  which  did  not  make 
that  gentleman  feel  very  comfortable,  and  finished  by  turning 
to  Miss  Murdstone  and  saying — 

"Good-day  to  you,  too,  ma'am,  and  if  I  ever  see  you  ride 
a  donkey  across  my  green  again,  as  sure  as  you  have  a  head 
upon  your  shoulders  I'll  knock  your  bonnet  off  and  tread 
upon  it!" 

This  startled  Miss  Murdstone  so  much  that  she  went  off 
quietly  with  her  brother,  while  I,  overjoyed,  threw  my 
arms  round  my  aunt's  neck,  and  kissed  and  thanked  her  with 
great  heartiness. 

Some  clothes  were  bought  for  me  that  same  day  and 
marked  "  Trotwood  Copperfield,"  for  my  aunt  wished  to  call 
me  by  her  name. 

Now  I  felt  my  troubles  were  over,  and  I  began  quite  a 
new  life,  well  cared  for  and  kindly  treated.  I  was  sent  to  a 
very  nice  school  in  Canterbury,  where  my  aunt  left  me  with 
these  words,  which  I  never  forgot : 

"Trot,  be  a  credit  to  yourself,  to  me,  and  Mr.  Dick,  and 
heaven  be  with  you.  Never  be  mean  in  anything,  never  be 
false,  never  be  cruel.  Avoid  these  three  vices,  Trot,  and  I 
shall  always  be  hopeful  of  you!  " 

I  did  my  best  to  show  my  gratitude  to  my  dear  aunt  by 
Jtudying  hard,  and  trying  to  be  all  she  could  wish. 

When  you  are  older  you  can  read  how  Little  David 
Copperfield  grew  up  to  be  a  good,  clever  man,  and  met  again 
all  his  old  friends,  and  made  many  new  ones. 

Also,  what  became  of  Steerforth,  Traddles,  the 
Peggottys,  little  Em'ly,  and  the  Micawbers, 


Jenny  Wren, 


IT  TALKING  into    the    city   one  holiday,  a  great  many 

Y  y       years  ag-o,   a   g-entleman    ran    up  the  steps  of  a  tall 

house  in  the  neighorhood    of   St.    Mary  Axe.     The 

lower   windows   were    those    of   a   counting--house,    but  the 

blinds,  like    those  of   the   entire    front   of   the    house,  were 

drawn  down. 

Tae  gentleman  knocked    and  rang-  several  times  before 

anyone  came,   but    at    last    an    old    man   opened  the   door. 

"What  are  you  up  to  that  you  did  not  hear  me?"     said 

Mr.  Fledgeby  irritably. 

"I  was  takmg"  the  air  at  the  top  of  the  house,  sir,"  said 

the  old  man  me^'^kly,  '*it  being  a  holiday.     What  might  you 

please  to  want,  i^ir?" 

** Humph  !     Holiday  indeed,"  g-rumbled  his  master,  who 

was  a  toy  merchant  amongst  other  things.      He  then  seated 

himself  in  the  countmg  house  and  g-ave  the  old  man — a  Jew 

and  Riah  by  name — directions  about  the  dressing  of  some 

dolls  about  which  he  haj  come  to  speak,  and,  as  he  rose  to 

go,  exclaimed — 

'*By-the-by,  how   do  you    take  the  air?     Do  you  stick 

your  head  out  of  a  chimney-pot?" 

No,  sir,  I  have  made  a  little  garden  on  the  leads." 

Let's  look  at  it,"  said  Mr.  Fledgeby. 

Sir,. I  have  company  there,"   returned  Riah  hesitating-, 

but  will  you  please  come  up  and  see  them?" 

Mr.  Fledgeby  nodded,  and,  passing-  his  master  with  a 

bow,  the  old  man  led  the  way  up  flight  after  flight  of  stairs, 

till  they  arrived  at  the  housetop.     Seated  on  a  carpet,  and 

197 


<< 
<< 


198 


JENNY  WREN 


leaning-  against  a  chimney-stack,  were  two  girls  bending  over 
books.      Some     humble    creepers    were    trained    round    the 


•'SEATED  ON  THE  CARPET  WERE  TWO  GIRLS.' 

chimney-pots,  and  evergreens  were  placed  round  the  roof, 
and  a  few  more  books,  a  basket  of  gaily  colored  scraps,  and 
bits  of  tinsel,, and  another  of  common  print  stuff  lay  near. 
One  of  the  girls  rose    on    seeing   that    Riah  had  brought  a 


JENNY  WREN  I99 

visitor,  but  the  other  remarked,  "Fm  the  person  of  the  house 
downstairs,  but  I  can't  get  up,  whoever  you  are,  because  my 
back  is  bad  and  my  leg's  are  queer." 

I  "This  is  my  master,"    said    Riah,   speaking  to  the  two 

girls,  "and  this,"  he  added,  turning  to  Mr.  Fledgeby,  "is 
Miss  Jenny  Wren;  she  lives  in  this  house,  and  is  a  clever 
dressmaker  for  little  people.  Her  friend  Lizzie,"  continued 
Riah,  introducing  the  second  girl.  "They  are  good  girls, 
both,  and  as  busy  as  they  are  good;  in  spare  moments 
they  come  up  here  and  take  a  book  learning." 

"We  are  glad  to  come  up  here  for  rest,  sir,"  said  Lizzie, 
with  a  grateful  look  at  the  old  Jew.  "No  one  can  tell  the 
rest  that  this  place  is  to  us." 

"Humph!"  said  Mr.  Fledgeby,  looking  round, 
"Humph!"  He  was  so  much  surprised  that  apparently  he 
couldn't  get  beyond  that  word,  and  as  he  went  down  again 
the  old  chimney-pots  in  their  black  cowls  seemed  to  turn  round 
and  look  after  him  as  if  they  were  saying  "  Humph"  too. 

Lizzie,  the  elder  of  these  two  girls,  was  strong  and 
handsome,  but  little  Jennie  Wren,  whom  she  so  loved  and 
protected,  was  small  and  deformed,  though  she  had  a 
beautiful  little  face,  and  the  longest  and  loveliest  golden 
hair  in  the  world,  which  fell  about  her  like  a  cloak  of  shining 
curls,  as  though  to  hide  the  poor  little  mis-shapen  figure. 

The  Jew  Riah,  as  well  as  Lizzie,  was  always  kind  and 
gentle  to  Jenny  Wren,  who  called  him  her  godfather.  She 
had  a  father,  who  shared  her  poor  little  rooms,  whom  she 
called  her  child,  for  he  was  a  bad,  drunken,  disreputable  old 
man,  and  the  poor  girl  had  to  care  for  him,  and  earn  money 
to  keep  them  both.  She  suffered  a  great  deal,  for  the  poor  little 
bent  back  always  ached  sadly,  and  was  often  weary  from 
incessant  work,  but  it  was  only  on  rare  occasions,  when  alone 


200 


JENNY  WREN 


or  with  her  friend  Lizzie,  who  often  broug-ht  her  work  and 
sat  in  Jenny's  room,  that  the  brave  child  ever  complained  of 
her  hard  lot.  Sometimes  the  two  girls,  Jenny  helping-  her- 
self along  with  a  crutch,  would  go  and  walk  about  the 
fashionable   streets,  in  order  to  note   how   the   grand  folks 


;^ji^:/t^ivr?^A;.^:j:;v:-,,^v^^-^.;wrV^^^^  ^xji,:''^'u^^,  >  v^?^.-. 


•'  GO  ALONG  ^VITH  YOU.YOU  WICKED  OLD  CHILD,  I  KNOW  WHERE  YOU  HAVE  BEEN  I  " 

were  dressed.  As  they  walked  along,  Jennie  would  tell  her 
friend  of  the  fancies  she  had  when  sitting-  alone  at  her  work. 
'*  I  imagine  birds  till  I  can  hear  them  sing,"  she  said  one 
day,  "and  flowers  till  I  can  smell  them.  And  oh!  the 
beautiful  children  that  come  to  me  in  the  early  mornings ! 
They  are  quite  different  to  other  children,  not  like  me,  never 
cold,  or  anxious,  or  tired,  or  hungry,  never  any  pain;  they 
come  in  numbers,  in  long  bright  slanting  rows,   all  dressed 


JENNY  WREN 


JENNY  WREN  tor 

in  white,  and  with  shiny  heads.  'Who  is  this  in  pain?' 
they  say,  and  they  sweep  around  and  about  me,  take  me  up 
in  their  arms,  and  I  feel  so  lig^ht,  and  all  the  pain  goes.  I 
know  when  they  are  coming*  a  long  way  off,  by  hearing  them 
say,  'Who  is  this  in  pain?'  and  I  answer,  'Oh  my  blessed 
children,  its  poor  me!  have  pity  on  me,  and  take  me  up  and 
then  the  pain  will  go.'  " 

Lizzie  sat  stroking  and  brushing  the  beautiful  hair, 
whilst  the  tired  little  dressmaker  leant  against  her  when  they 
were  at  home  again,  and  as  she  kissed  her  good-night  a 
miserable  old  man  stumbled  into  the  room.  "  How's  my 
Jenny  Wren,  best  of  children?"  he  mumbled,  as  he  shuffled 
unsteadily  towards  her,  but  Jenny  pointed  her  small  finger 
towards  him,  exclaiming — "Go  along  with  you,  you  bad, 
wicked  old  child,  you  troublesome,  wicked  old  thing,  /  know 
where  you  have  been,  /know  your  tricks  and  your  manners." 
The  wretched  man  began  to  whimper,  like  a  scolded  chila. 
"  Slave,  slave,  slave,  from  morning  to  night,"  went  ca 
Jennie,  still  shaking  her  finger  at  him,  "and  all  for  thl^-, 
ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  you  disgraceful  boy?" 

"Yes;  my  dear,  yes,"  stammered  the  tipsy  old  father, 
tumbling  into  a  corner.  Thus  was  the  poor  little  dolls' 
dressmaker  dragged  down  day  by  day  by  the  very  hands 
that  should  have  cared  for  and  held  her  up ;  poor,  poor  little 
dolls'  dressmaker  !  One  day  when  Jenny  was  on  her  way 
home  with  Riah,  who  had  accompanied  her  on  one  of  htr 
expeditions  to  the  West  End,  they  came  on  a  small  crowd 
of  people.  A  tipsy  man  had  been  knocked  down  and  badly 
hurt.  "Let  us  see  what  it  is,"  said  Jenny,  coming  swiftly 
forward  on  her  crutches.  The  next  moment  she  exclaimed 
— "Oh,  gentlemen — gentlemen,  he  is  my  child,  he  belongs 
to  me,  my  poor,  bad  old  child  I  " 


202  JENNY  WREN 

"Your  child— belongs  to  you,"  repeated  the  man  who 
was  about  to  lift  the  helpless  figure  onto  a  stretcher,  which 
had  been  brought  for  the  purpose.  "Aye,  it's  old  Dolls — 
tipsy  old  Dolls,"  cried  someone  in  the  crowd,  for  it  was  by 
this  name  that  they  knew  the  old  man. 

*' He's  her  father,  sir,"  said  Riah  in  a  low  tone  to  the 
doctor  who  was  now  bending  over  the  stretcher. 

''So  much  the  worse,"  answered  the  doctor,  "for  the 
man  is  dead." 

Yes,  "  Mr  Dolls"  was  dead,  and  many  were  the  dresses 
which  the  weary  fingers  of  the  sorrowful  little  worker  must 
make  in  order  to  pay  for  his  humble  funeral  and  buy  a 
black  frock  for  herself.  Riah  sat  by  her  in  her  poor  room, 
saying  a  word  of  comfort  now  and  then,  and  Lizzie  came 
and  went,  and  did  all  manner  of  little  things  to  help  her; 
but  often  the  tears  rolled  down  on  to  her  work.  "  My  poor 
child,"  she  said  to  Riah,  "my  poor  old  child,  and  to  think 
I  scolded  him  so." 

"You  were  always  a  good,  brave,  patient  girl,"  re- 
turned Riah,  smiling  a  little  over  her  quaint  fancy  about  her 
child,  "always  good  and  patient,  however  tired." 

And  so  the  poor  little  "person  of  the  house"  was  left 
alone  but  for  the  faithful  affection  of  the  kind  Jew  and  her 
friend  Lizzie.  Her  room  grew  pretty  and  comfortable,  for 
'she  was  in  great  request  in  her  "profession,"  as  she  called 
it,  and  there  was  now  no  one  to  spend  and  waste  her  earn- 
ings. But  nothing  could  make  her  life  otherwise  than  a 
suffering  one  till  the  happy  morning  when  her  child-angels 
visited  her  for  the  last  time  and  carried  her  away  to  the  land 
where  all  such  pain  as  hers  is  healed  for  evermore. 


Pip's  Adventure. 


"PIP,  OLD  CHAP,  YOU'LL  DO  YOUPSELF  A  MISCHIEF. 


ALL    that    little 
Philip  Pirrip, 
usually  called 
Pip,  knew  about  his 
father  and    mother, 
and    his    five    little 
brothers,    was  from 
seeing    their    tomb- 
stones in  the  church- 
yard.     He    was 
taken  care  of  by 
his  sister,  who 
was    twenty 
years    older 
than  him- 
self.    She 
had  married 
a    black- 
smith,  nam- 
ed Joe  Gar- 
gery,  a  kind, 
good  man, 
while  she, 
u  n  f  o  r  t  u  - 
nately,    was 
a  hard,  stern 
woman,  and 
treated    her 

little  brother 
203 


204  PIP'S   ADVENTURE 

and  her  amiable  husband  with  great  harshness.  They  lived 
in  a  marshy  part  of  the  country,  about  twenty  miles  from 
the  sea. 

One  cold,  raw  day  toward  evening-,  when  Pip  was  about 
six  years  old,  he  had  wandered  into  the  churchyard,  and 
trying  to  make  out  what  he  could  of  the  inscriptions  on  his 
family  tombstones,  and,  the  darkness  coming  on,  he  felt  very 
lonely  and  frightened,  and  began  to  cry. 

''Hold  your  noise!"  cried  a  terrible  voice,  and  a  man 
started  up  from  among-  the  graves  close  to  him.  **Keep  still, 
you  little  imp,  or  I'll  cut  your  throat!  " 

He  was  a  dreadful  looking  man,  dressed  in  coarse  gray 
cloth,  with  a  great  iron  on  his  leg.  Wet,  muddy  and  miser- 
able, he  limped  and  shivered,  and  glared  and  growled;  his 
teeth  chattered  in  his  head  as  he  seized  Pip  by  the  chin. 

*'0h!  don't  cut  my  throat,  sir,"  cried  Pip,  in  terror. 
"Pray  don't  do  it,  sir." 

*'Tell  us  your  name!  "  said  the  man.     "Quick!  " 
Pip,  Sir. 

"Once  more,"  said  the  man  staring  at  him.  "Give  it 
mouth." 

Pip,  sir. 

"Show  us  where  you  live,"  said  the  man.      "Point  out 

the  place," 

Pip    showed  him  the  village,  about  a  mile  or  more  from 

the  church. 

The  man  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
him  upside  down  and  emptied  his  pockets.  He  found  noth- 
ing in  them  but  a  piece  of  bread,  which  he  ate  ravenously. 

"You  young  dog,"  said  the  man,  licking  his  lips,  "whait 
fat  cheeks  you  ha'e  got  .  .  .  Darn  me  if  I  couldn't  eat 
'em,  and  if  I  han't  half  a  mind  to!  " 


<<1 


PIP'S   ADVENTURE  205 

Pip  said  earnestly  that  he  hoped  he  would  not. 
''Now    lookee    here,"    said    the    man.      "Where's  your 
mother?" 

"There,  sir,"  said  Pip. 

At  this  the  man  started  and  seemed  about  to  run  away, 
but  stopped  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

'There  sir,"  explained  Pip,  showing  him  the  tombstone. 
'Oh,  and  is  that  your  father  along-  of  your  mother?" 
'Yes  sir,"  said  Pip. 

Ha!  "  muttered  the  man,  "then  who  d'ye  live  with? — 
supposin'  you're  kindly  let-to  live,  which  I  han't  made  up 
my  mind  about." 

"My  sister,  sir,  Mrs.  Joe  Garg-ery,  wife  of  Joe  Gargery, 
the  blacksmith,  sir." 

"Blacksmith,  eh?"  said  the  man,  and  looked  down  at 
his  leg-.  Then  he  seized  the  trembling  little  boy  by  both 
arms,  and  glaring-  down  at  him  he  said — 

"Now  lookee  here,  the  question  being  whether  you're  to 
be  let  to  live.     You  know  what  a  file  is?  " 
"Yes  sir." 

'And  you  know  what  wittles  is?" 
'Yes  sir." 

'You  get  me  a  file,  and  you  get  me  wittles— you  bring 
'em  both  to  me"  All  this  time  he  was  tilting  poor  Pip 
backwards  till  he  was  so  dreadfully  frightened  and  giddy 
that  he  clung  to  the  man  with  both  hands. 

"You  bring  me,  to-morrow  morning  early,  that  file  and 
them  wittles.  You  do  it,  and  you  never  dare  to  say  a  word 
or  dare  to  make  a  sign  concerning  your  having  seen  such  a 
person  as  me,  or  any  person  sumever,  and  you  shall  be  let  to 
live."  Then  he  threatened  all  sorts  of  dreadful  and  terrible 
things  to  poor  Pip  if  he  failed  to  do  all  he  had  commanded. 


<< 
II- 


206  PIP'S   ADVENTURE 

and  made  him  solemnly  promise  to  bring-  him  what  he 
wanted,  and  to  keep  the  secret.  Then  he  let  him  go,  saying-, 
**You  remember  what  you've  undertook,  and  you  get  home." 

"Goo — good  night,  sir,"  faltered  Pip. 

**  Much  of  that!  "  said  he  glancing  over  the  cold  wet  flat. 
*^I  wish  I  was  a  frog  or  a  eel !  " 

Pip  ran  home  without  stopping.  Joe  was  sitting  in  the 
chimney  corner,  and  told  him  Mrs.  Joe  had  been  out  to  look 
for  him,  and  taken  Tickler  with  her.  Tickler  was  a  cane, 
and  Pip  was  rather  depressed  by  this  piece  of  news. 

Mrs.  Joe  came  in  almost  directly,  and,  after  having 
given  Pip  a  taste  of  Tickler,  she  sat  down  to  prepare  the  tea, 
and,  cutting  a  huge  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  she  gave  half 
of  it  to  Joe  and  half  to  Pip.  Pip  managed,  after  sometime, 
to  slip  his  down  the  leg  of  his  trousers,  and  Joe,  thinking  he 
had  swallowed  it,  was  dreadfully  alarmed  and  begged  him 
not  to  bolt  his  food  like  that.  **Pip,  old  chap,  you'll  do 
yourself  a  mischief — it'll  stick  somewhere,  you  can't  have 
chewed  it,  Pip.  You  know,  Pip,  you  and  me  is  always 
friends,  and  Pd  be  the  last  to  tell  upon  you  any  time,  but 
such  a — such  a  most  uncommon  bolt  as  that."   ' 

''Been  bolting  his  food,  has  he?  "  cried  Mrs.  Joe. 

''You  know,  old  chap,"  said  Joe,  "I  bolted  myself  when 
I  was  your  age — frequent — and  as  a  boy  Pve  been  among  a 
many  bolters ;  but  I  never  see  your  bolting  equal  yet,  Pip, 
and  it's  a  mercy  you  ain't  bolted  dead." 

Mrs.  Joe  made  a  dive  at  Pip,  fished  him  up  by  the  hair, 
saying,  "You  come  along  and  be  dosed." 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  and  Pip  had  to  stir  the  pudding- 
from  seven  to  eight,  and  found  the  bread  and  butter  dread- 
fully in  his  way.  At  last  he  slipped  out  and  put  it  away  in 
his  little  bedroom. 


PIP'S   ADVENTURE 


207 


PIP    AND    THE 
CONVICT. 


208  PIP'S   ADVENTURE 

Poor  Pip  passed  a  wretched  nig^ht,  thinking-  of  the 
dreadful  promise  he  had  made,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  beg-in^ 
ning-  to  get  light  outside  he  got  up  and  crept  downstairs, 
fancying  that  every  board  creaked  out  "Stop  thief!"  and  **Get 
up,  Mrs.  Joe!" 

As  quickly  as  he  could,  he  took  some  bread,  some  rind 
of  cheese,  about  half  a  jar  of  mince-meat,  which  he  tied  up 
in  a  handkerchief,  with  the  slice  of  bread  and  butter;  some 
brandy  from  a  stone  bottle,  a  meat-bone  with  very  little  on 
it,  and  a  pork-pie,  which  he  found  on  an  upper  shelf.  Then 
he  got  a  file  from  among  Joe's  tools  and  ran  for  the 
marshes. 

It  was  a  very  misty  morning,  and  Pip  imagined  that  all 
the  cattle  stared  at  him,  as  if  to  say,  ''Halloa,  young  thief  I" 
and  one  black  ox  with  a  white  cravat  on,  that  made  Pip 
think  of  a  clergyman,  looked  so  accusingly  at  him  that  Pip 
blubbered  out,  ''I  couldn't  help  it,  sir!  It  wasn't  for  myself 
I  took  it." 

Upon  which  the  ox  put  down  his  head,  blew  a  cloud  of 
smoke  out  of  his  nose,  and  vanished  with  a  kick-up  of  his 
hind  legs,  and  a  flourish  of  his  tail. 

Pip  was  soon  at  the  Battery  after  that,  and  there  was 
the  man — hugging  himself  and  limping  to  and  fro,  as  if  he 
had  never  all  night  left  off  hugging  and  limping.  He  was 
awfully  cold,  to  be  sure.  Pip  half  expected  to  see  him  drop 
down  before  his  face  and  die  of  cold.  His  eyes  looked  so  aw- 
fully hungr}^,  too,  that  when  Pip  handed  him  the  file  it  occurred 
to  him  he  would  have  tried  to  eat  it,  if  he  had  not  seen  the 
bundle.  He  did  not  turn  Pip  upside  down,  this  time,  to  get  at 
what  he  had,  but  left  him  right  side  upward  while  he 
opened  the  bundle  and  emptied  his  pockets. 

''What's  in  the  bottle,  boy?"  said  he. 


(( 
(( 
(< 


PIP'S  ADVENTURE  209 

** Brandy,"  said  Pip. 

He  was  already  handing-  mince-pie  down  his  throat  in 
the  most  curious  manner,  more  like  a  man  who  was  putting 
it  away  somewhere  in  a  violent  hurry  than  a  man  who  was 
eating-  it — but  he  left  off  to  take  some  of  the  liquor,  shivering- 
all  the  while  so  violently  that  it  was  quite  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  keep  the  neck  of  the  bottle  between  his  teeth. 
I  think  you  have  g-ot  the  ague,"  said  Pip. 
I'm  much  of  your  opinion,  boy,"  said  he. 
It's  bad  about  here.     You've  been  lying  out  on  the 
marshes,  and  they're  dreadful  aguish.     Rheumatic,  too." 

''I'll  eat  my  breakfast  before  they're  the  death  of  me," 
said  he.  *'  I'd  do  that,  if  I  was  going  to  be  strung-  up  to  that 
there  gallows  as  there  is  over  there  directly  arterward.  I'll 
beat  the  shivers  so  far,  I'll  bet  you  a  g-uinea." 

He  was  g-obbling-  mince-meat,  meat-bone,  bread,  cheese, 
and  pork-pie  all  at  once,  staring  distrustfully  while  he  did  so 
at  the  mist  all  round,  and  often  stopping — even  stopping  his 
jaws — to  listen.  Some  real  or  fancied  sound,  some  clink 
upon  the  river  or  breathing  of  beasts  upon  the  marsh,  now 
gave  him  a  start,  and  he  said,  suddenly: 

**  You're  not  a  false  imp?    You  brought  no  one  with  you?" 

"No,  sir!     No!" 

"  Nor  give  no  one  the  office  to  follow  you?'* 

"No!" 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  believe  you.  You'd  be  but  a  fierce 
young  hound  indeed,  if  at  your  time  of  life  you  should  help 
to  hunt  a  wretched  warmint',  hunted  as  near  death  and  dung- 
hill as  this  poor  wretched  warmint  is!  " 

Something  clicked  in  his  throat,  as  if  he  had  works  in 
him  like  a  clock,  and  was  going  to  strike.  And  he  smeared 
his  ragged,  rough  sleeve  over  his  eyes, 

14 


2IO  PIP^S  ADVENTURE 

Pityingf  his  desolation,  and  watchingf  him  as  he  gradu 
ally  settled  down  upon  the  pie,  Pip  made  bold  to  say,  **  I  am 
glad  you  enjoy  it." 

"  Did  you  speak  ?  '* 

"  I  said  I  was  glad   you  enjoyed  it." 

**  Thankee,   my  boy.     I  do." 

Pip  had  often  watched  a  large  dog  eating  his  food  ;  and 
he  now  noticed  a  decided  similarity  between  the  dog's  way 
of  eating  and  the  man's.  The  man  took  strong,  sharp,  sud- 
den bites,  just  like  the  dog.  He  swallowed,  or  rather 
snapped  up,  every  mouthful  too  soon  and  too  fast ;  and 
he  looked  sideways  here  and  there  while  he  ate,  as  if  he 
thought  there  was  danger  of  somebody's  coming  to  take  the 
pie  away.  He  was  altogether  too  unsettled  in  his  mind  over  it 
to  appreciate  it  comfortably,  Pip  thought,  or  to  have  any- 
body to  dine  with  him,  without  making  a  chop  with  his  jaws 
at  the  visitor.  In  all  of  which  particulars  he  was  very  like 
the  dog. 

Pip  watched  him  trying  to  file  the  iron  off  his  leg, 
and  then,  being  afraid  of  stopping  longer  away  from  home, 
he  ran  off. 

Pip  passed  a  wretched  morning,  expecting  every  mo- 
ment that  the  disappearance  of  the  pie  would  be  found  out. 
But  Mrs.  Joe  was  too  much  taken  up  with  preparing  the 
dinner,  for  they  were  expecting  visitors,  and  were  to  have  a 
superb  dinner,  consisting  of  a  leg  of  pickled  pork  and  greens, 
and  a  pair  of  roast  stuffed  fowls,  a  mince-pie,  and  a  pudding. 

Just  at  the  end  of  the  dinner  Pip  thought  his  time  had 
come  to  be  found  out,  for  his  sister  said  graciously  to  her 
guests — 

"You  must  taste  a  most  delightful  and  delicious  present 
I  have  had.     It's  a  pie,  a  savory  pork-pie." 


PIP'S   ADVENTURE  211 

Pip  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  ran  for  the  door,  and 
there  ran  head  foremost  into  a  party  of  soldiers  with  their 
muskets,  one  of  whom  held  out  a  pair  of  handcuffs  to  him, 
saying,  "Here  you  are,  look  sharp,  come  on."  But  they 
had  not  come  for  him ;  they  only  wanted  Joe  to  mend  the 
handcuffs,  for  they  were  on  the  search  for  two  convicts  who 
had  escaped  and  were  somewhere  hid  in  the  marshes.  This 
turned  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Joe  from  the  disappearance  of 
the  pie,  without  which  she  had  come  back,  in  great  astonish- 
ment. When  the  handcuffs  were  mended  the  soldiers  went 
off,  accompanied  by  Joe  and  one  of  the  visitors,  and  Joe 
took  Pip  and  carried  him  on  his  back. 

Pip  whispered,  "  I  hope,  Joe,  we  shan't  find  them,"  and 
Joe  answered,  "  Fd  give  a  shilling  if  they  had  cut  and  run, 

Pip," 

But  the  soldiers  soon  caught  them,  and  one  was  Pip's 
miserable  acquaintance,  and  once,  when  the  man  looked  at 
Pip,  the  child  shook  his  head  to  try  and  let  him  know  he 
had  said  nothing. 

But  the  convict,  without  looking  at  anyone,  told  the 
sergeant  he  wanted  to  say  something  to  prevent  other  people 
being  under  suspicion,  and  said  he  had  taken  some  **wittles" 
from  the  blacksmith's.  ''It  was  some  broken  wittles,  that's 
what  it  was,  and  a  dram  of  liquor,  and  a  pie." 

"  Have  you  happened  to  miss  such  an  article  as  a  pie, 
blacksmith?"  inquired  the  sergeant. 

"  My  wife  did,  at  the  very  moment  when  you  came  in. 
Don't  you  know,  Pip?'* 

**So,"  said  the  convict,  looking  at  Joe,  **you're  the  black- 
smith, are  you?     Then,  Pra  sorry  to  say  Pve  eat  your  pie." 

**God  knows  you're  welcome  to  it,"  said  Joe.  "We 
don't  know  what  you  have  done,  but  we  wouldn't  have  you 


212  PIP'S   ADVENTURE 

Starved  to  death  for  it,  poor,  miserable  fellow-creature.  Would 
us,  Pip?" 

Then  the  boat  came,  and  the  convicts  were  taken  back 
to  their  prison,  and  Joe  carried  Pip  home. 

*«X*  ml»  *1*  aI*  •!•  ^Iff 

*T*  *»*  •X'  •!*  •**  **^ 

Some  years  after,  some  mysterious  friend  sent  money 
for  Pip  to  be  educated  and  broug-ht  up  as  a  gentleman,  but 
it  was  only  when  Pip  was  quite  grown  up  that  he  discovered 
this  mysterious  friend  was  the  wretched  convict  who  had 
frightened  him  so  dreadfully  that  cold,  dark  Christmas  eve. 


The  Child  who  Swallowed  a  Necklace. 


n 


( < 


^  ^"[J  Y-THE-BY,  Bob,"  said  Hopkins,  with  a  scarcely  per- 

_[j      ceptible  glance  at  Mr.  Pickwick's  attentive  face, 
"we  had  a  curious  accident  last  nig-ht.     A  child 
was  brought  in  who  had  swallowed  a  necklace." 

Swallowed  what,  sir?"   interrupted  Mr.  Pickwick. 
A    necklace,"    replied    Jack 
Hopkins. 

''  Not  all  at  once— you  know 
that  would  be  too  much  ;  you  couldn't 
swallow  that,  if  the  child  did — eh? 
Mr.  Pickwick,  ha  !  ha  !  "  Mr.  Hop- 
kins appeared  highly  gratified  with 
his  own  pleasantry,  and  continued : 
"No,  the  way  was  this:  child's 
parents  were  poor  people,  who  lived 
in  a  court.  Child's  eldest  sister 
bought  a  necklace — common  neck-  \\ 
lace,  made  of  large,  black,  wooden 
beads.  Child,  being  fond  of  toys, 
cribbed  the  necklace,  hid  it,  played 
with  it,  cut  the  string,  and  swallowed  a  bead.  Child 
thought  it  capital  fun,  went  back  next  day  and  swallowed 
another  bead." 

"Bless  my  heart,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  **  what  a  dreadful 
thing!     I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     Go  on." 

"Next  day  child  swallowed  two  beads;    the  day  after 

that  he  treated  himself  to  three,  and  so  on,  till,  in  a  week's 

time,  he  had  got  through  the  necklace,  five- and- twenty  beads 

213 


214         THE  CHILD  WHO  SWALLOWED  A  NECKLACE 

in  all.  The  sister,  who  was  an  industrious  girl,  and  seldom 
treated  herself  to  a  bit  of  finery,  cried  her  eyes  out  at  the  loss 
of  the  necklace;  looked  hig-h  and  low  for  it;  but  I  needn't 
say  didn't  find  it.  A  few  days  afterwards  the  family  were 
at  dinner — baked  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  potatoes  under 
it — the  child,  who  wasn't  hungry,  was  playing-  about  the 
room,  when  suddenly  there  was  heard  a  singular  noise,  like 
a  small  hail-storm.  'Don't  do  that,  my  boy,'  said  the 
father.  *I  ain't  a-doin'  nothin','  said  the  child.  'Well, 
don't  do  it  again'  said  the  father.  There  was  a  short 
silence,  and  then  the  noise  began  again,  worse  than  ever.  *  If 
you  don't  mind  what  I  say,  my  boy,'  said  the  father,  'you'll 
find  yourself  in  bed,  in  something  less  than  a  pig's  whisper.' 
He  gave  the  child  a  shake  to  make  him  obedient,  and  such 
a  rattling  ensued  as  nobody  ever  heard  before.  'Why  it's  in 
the  child!'  said  the  father;  'he's  got  the  croup  in  the  wrong 
place!'  'No  I  haven't,  father,'  said  the  child,  beginning  to 
cry,  'it's  the  necklace;  I  swallowed  it,  father.'  The  father 
caught  the  child  up,  and  ran  with  him  to  the  hospital — the 
beads  in  the  boy's  stomach  rattling  all  the  way  with  the 
jolting;  and  the  people  looking  up  in  the  air  and  down  into 
the  cellars,  to  see  where  the  unusual  sound  came  from.  He's 
in  the  hospital  now,  and  he  makes  such  a  strange  noise 
when  he  walks  about  that  they're  obliged  to  mufiie  him  in  a 
watchman's  coat,  for  fear  he  should  wake  the  patients!  '*  ! 
"That's  the  most  extraordinary  case  I  ever  heard  of," 
said  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  an  emphatic  blow  on  the  table. 


Todgers'. 


MR.  PECKSNIFF  with  his  two  beautiful  young 
daughters  looked  about  him  for  a  moment,  and  then 
knocked  at  the  door  of  a  very  dingy  edifice,  even 
among-  the  choice  collection  of  dingy  edifices  at  hand,  on  the 
front  of  which  was  a  little  oval 
board,  like  a  tea-tray,  with  this  in- 
scription— '*  Commercial  Boarding- 
house.     M.Todgers." 

It  seemed  that  M.  Todgers  was 
not  up  yet,  for  Mr.  Pecksniff  knock- 
ed twice  and  rang  thrice,  without 
making  any  impression  on  anything 
but  a  dog  over  the  way.  At  last  a 
chain  and  some  bolts  were  with- 
drawn with  a  rusty  noise,  and  a 
small  boy  with  a  large  red  head, 
and  no  nose  to  speak  of,  and  a  very 
dirty  boot  on  his  left  arm,  appeared, 
who  (being  surprised)  rubbed  the 
nose  just  mentioned  with  the  back 
of  a  shoe-brush,  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

*' Still  abed,  my  man?**  asked 
Mr.  Pecksniff. 

''Still  abed!"  replied  the  boy.       '1  wish  they  wos  still 

abed.     They're  very  noisy  abed;    all  calling  for  their  boots 

at  once.     I  thought  you  was  the  Paper,  and  wondered  why 

215 


'I  WISH  THEY  WOS  STILL 
ABED." 


2i6  TODGERS' 

YQU  didn't  shove  yourself  through  the  grating^  as  usual.  What 
do  you  want?  " 

Considering  his  years,  which  were  tender,  the  youth  may 
be  said  to  have  asked  this  question  sternly,  and  in  something 
of  a  defiant  manner.  But  Mr.  Pecksniff,  without  taking  um- 
brage at  his  bearing,  put  a  card  in  his  hand,  and  bade  him 
take  that  upstairs,  and  show  them  in  the  meanwhile  into  a 
room  where  there  was  a  fire. 

Surely  there  never  was,  in  any  other  borough,  city,  or 
hamlet  in  the  world,  such  a  singular  sort  of  a  place  as 
Todgers'.  And  surely  London,  to  judge  from  that  part  of  it 
which  hemmed  Todgers'  round,  and  hustled  it  and  crushed 
it  and  stuck  its  brick  and  mortar  elbows  into  it,  and  kept  the 
air  from  it,  and  stood  perpetually  between  it  and  the  light, 
was  worthy  of  Todgers'. 

There  were  more  trucks  near  Todgers'  than  you  would 
suppose  a  whole  city  could  ever  need;  not  active  trucks,  but  a 
vagabond  race,  forever  lounging  in  the  narrow  lanes  before  their 
masters'  doors  and  stopping  up  the  pass;  so  that  when  a 
stray  hackney-coach  or  lumbering  wagon  came  that  way  they 
were  the  cause  of  such  an  uproar  as  enlivened  the  whole 
neighborhood,  and  made  the  very  bells  in  the  next  church-tower 
vibrate  again.  In  the  throats  and  maws  of  dark  nothorough- ' 
fares  near  Todgers',  individual  wine-merchants  and  whole- 
sale dealers  in  grocery-ware  had  perfect  little  towns  of  their 
own;  and  deep  among  the  very  foundations  of  these  build- 
ings the  ground  was  undermined  and  burrowed  out  into 
stables,  where  cart-horses,  troubled  by  rats,  might  be  heard 
on  a  quiet  Sunday  rattling  their  halters,  as  disturbed  spirits 
in  tales  of  haunted  houses  are  said  to  clank  their  chains. 

To  tell  of  half  the  queer  old  taverns  that  had  a  drowsy 
and  secret  existence  near  Todgers '  would  fill  a  goodly  book ; 


TODGERS*  217 

while  a  second  volume,  no  less  capacious,  might  be  devoted 
to  an  account  of  the  quaint  old  g-uests  who  frequented  their 
dimly-lig-hted  parlors. 

The  top  of  the  house  was  worthy  of  notice.  There  was 
a  sort  of  terrace  on  the  roof,  with  posts  and  fragments  of  rot- 
ten lines,  once  intended  to  dry  clothes  upon ;  and  there  were 
two  or  three  tea-chests  out  there,  full  of  earth,  with  forgotten 
plants  in  them,  like  old  walking  sticks.  Whoever  climbed 
to  this  observatory  was  stunned  at  first  from  having 
knocked  his  head  against  the  little  door  in  coming  out;  and, 
after  that,  was  for  the  moment  choked  from  having  looked, 
perforce,  straight  down  the  kitchen  chimney;  but,  these  two 
stages  over,  there  were  things  to  gaze  at  from  the  top  of  Tod- 
gers*,  well  worth  your  seeing,  too.  For,  first  and  foremost,  if 
the  day  were  bright,  you  observed  upon  the  house-tops,  stretch- 
ing far  away,  a  long  dark  path — the  shadow  of  the 
Monument;  and  turning  round,  the  tall  original  was  close 
beside  you,  with  every  hair  erect  upon  his  golden  head,  as  if 
the  doings  of  the  city  frightened  him.  Then  there  were 
steeples,  towers,  belfries,  shining  vanes  and  masts  of  ships, 
a  very  forest.  Gables,  house-tops,  garret-windows,  wilder- 
ness upon  wilderness.  Smoke  and  noise  enough  for  all  the 
world  at  once. 

After  the  first  glance,  there  were  slight  features  in  the 
midst  of  this  crowd  of  objects,  which  sprung  out  from  the 
mass  without  any  reason,  as  it  were,  and  took  hold  of  the 
attention  whether  the  spectator  would  or  no.  Thus  the  re- 
volving chimney-pots  on  one  great  stack  of  buildings  seemed 
to  be  turning  gravely  to  each  other  every  now  and  then,  and 
whispering  the  result  of  their  separate  observation  of  what 
was  going  on  below.  Others,  of  a  crook-backed  shape, 
appeared  to  be  maliciously  holding  themselves  askew,   that 


2i8  TODGERS' 

they  mig-ht  shut  the  prospect  out  and  baffle  Todg-ers.  The 
man  who  was  mending^  a  pen  at  an  upper  window  over  the 
way  became  of  paramount  importance  in  the  scene,  and 
made  a  blank  in  it,  ridiculously  disproportionate  in  its  extent, 
when  he  retired.  The  gambols  of  a  piece  of  cloth  upon  the 
dyer's  pole  had  far  more  interest  for  the  moment  than  all  the 
changing-  motion  of  the  crowd.  Yet  even  while  the  looker- 
on  felt  angry  with  himself  for  this,  and  wondered  how  it 
was,  the  tumult  swelled  into  a  roar;  the  hosts  of  objects 
seemed  to  thicken  and  expand  a  hundred  fold;  and  after 
gazing  round  him,  quite  scared,  he  turned  into  Todgers' 
again,  much  more  rapidly  than  he  came  out ;  and  ten  to  one 
he  told  M.  Todgers  afterwards  that  if  he  hadn't  done  so  he 
would  certainly  have  come  into  the  street  by  the  shortest  cut ; 
that  is  to  say,  head-foremost. 

So  said  the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs,  when  they  retired  with 
Mrs.  Todgers  from  this  place  of  espial,  leaving  the  youthful 
porter  to  close  the  door  and  follow  them  downstairs ;  who 
being  of  a  playful  temperament,  and  contemplating  with  a 
delight  peculiar  to  his  sex  and  time  of  life  any  chance  of 
dashing  himself  into  small  fragments,  lingered  behind  to 
walk  upon  the  parapet. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  their  stay  in  London,  and  by 
this  time  the  Miss  Pecksniffs  and  Mrs.  Todgers  were  be- 
coming highly  confidential,  insomuch  that  the  last-named 
lady  had  already  communicated  the  particulars  of  three  early 
disappointments  of  a  tender  nature,  and  had  furthermore 
possessed  her  young  friends  with  a  general  summary  of  the 
life,  conduct  and  character  of  Mr.  Todgers,  who,  it  seemed, 
had  cut  his  matrimonial  career  rather  short,  by  unlawfully 
running  away  from  his  happiness,  and  establishing  himself 
in  foreign  countries  as  a  bachelor. 


TODaERS'  219 


"Your  pa  was  once  a  little  particular  in  his  attentions, 
my  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Todgers,  "but  to  be  your  ma  was  too 
much  happiness  denied  me.  You'd  hardly  know  who  this 
was  done  for,  perhaps?  " 

She  called  their  attention  to  an  oval  miniature,  like  a 
little  blister,  which  was  tacked  up  over  the  kettle-holder,  and 
in  which  there  was  a  dreamy  shadowing-  forth  of  her  own 
visage. 

"It's  a  speaking-  likeness!"  cried  the  two  Miss 
Pecksniffs. 

"It  was  considered  so  once,"  said  Mrs.  Todgfers, 
warming-  herself  in  a  gentlemanly  manner  at  the  fire:  "but 
I  hardly  thoug-ht  you  would  have  known  it,  my  lovec." 

They  would  have  known  it  anywhere.  If  they  could 
have  met  with  it  in  the  street  or  seen  it  in  a  shop-window 
they  would  have  cried,  "Good    gracious!       Mrs.  Todgers!" 

"Presiding  over  an  establishment  like  this  makes  sad 
havoc  with  the  features,  my  dear  Miss  Pecksniffs,"  said 
Mrs.  Todgers.  "The  gravy  alone  is  enough  to  add  twenty 
years  to  one's  age,  I  do  assure  you." 

"Lor!"     cried  the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs. 

"The  anxiety  of  that  one  item,  my  dears,"  said  Mrs. 
Todgers,  "keeps  the  mind  continually  upon  the  stretch. 
There  is  no  such  passion  in  human  nature  as  the  passion 
for  gravy  among-  commercial  g-entlemen.  It's  nothing-  to 
say  a  joint  won't  yield — a  whole  animal  wouldn't  yield — 
the  amount  of  gravy  they  expect  each  day  at  dinner.  And 
what  I  have  undergone  in  consequence,"  cried  Mrs.  Tod- 
gers, raising  her  eyes  and  shaking  her  head,  "no  one 
would  believe!" 

"Just  like  Mr.  Pinch,  Mercy!"  said  Charity.  "We 
have    always    noticed    it    in    him,    you    remember?" 


220  TODGERS' 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  gig-gled  Mercy,  ''but  we  have  never 
gfiven  it  to  him,  you  know." 

**You,  my  dears,  having-  to  deal  with  your  pa's  pupils 
who  can't  help  themselves,  are  able  to  take  your  own  way," 
said  Mrs.  Todg-ers,  "but  in  a  commercial  establishment, 
where  any  gentleman  may  say,  any  Saturday  evening,  'Mrs. 
Todgers,  this  day  week  we  part,  in  consequence  of  the  cheese,' 
it  is  not  s_o  easy  to  preserve  a  pleasant  understanding. 
Your  pa  was  kind  enough,"  added  the  good  lady,  "to  in- 
vite me  to  take  a  ride  with  you  to-day ;  and  I  think  he  men- 
tioned that  you  were  going  to  call  upon  Miss  Pinch.  Any 
relation  to  the  g-entleman  you  were  speaking  of  just  now, 
Miss  Pecksniff?" 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Mrs.  Todgers,"  interposed  the 
lively  Mercy,  "don't  call  him  a  gentleman.  My  dear  Cherry, 
Pinch    a  gentleman?     The  idea!" 

"What  a  wicked  girl  you  are!"  cried  Mrs.  Todgers, 
embracing  her  with  great  affection.  "You  are  quite  a  quiz, 
I  do  declare  !  My  dear  Miss  Pecksniff,  what  a  happiness 
your  sister's  spirits  must  be  to  your  pa  and  self!" 

"He's  the  most  hideous,  goggle-eyed  creature,  Mrs. 
Todgers,  in  existence,"  resumed  Mercy;  "quite  an  ogre.  The 
ugliest,  awkwardest,  frightfullest  being-  you  can  imagine. 
This  is  his  sister,  so  I  leave  you  to  suppose  what  sJie  is. 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  laugh  outright,  I  know  I  shall  !"  cried 
the  charming-  girl.  "I  never  shall  be  able  to  keep  my  coun- 
tenance. The  notion  of  a  Miss  Pinch  presuming  to  exist  at 
all  is  sufficient  to  kill  one,    but   to  see  her — oh  my  stars!" 

Mrs.  Todgers  laughed  immensely  at  the  dear  love's 
humor,  and  declared  she  was  quite  afraid  of  her,  that  she  was. 
She  was  so  very  severe. 

"Who  is  severe?"   cried  a  voice  at  the  door.     "There 


TODGERS'  221 

is  no  such  thing  as  seventy  in  our  family,  I  hope ! "  And 
then  Mr.  Pecksniff  peeped  smiling-ly  into  the  room,  and  said, 
'*  May  I  come  in,  Mrs.  Todgers?" 

Mrs.  Todgers  ahiiost  screamed,  for  the  little  door  of 
communication  between  that  room  and  the  inner  one  being- 
wide  open,  there  was  a  full  disclosure  of  the  sofa-bedstead 
in  all  its  monstrous  impropriety.  But  she  had  the  presence 
of  mind  to  close  this  portal  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye;  and 
having  done  so,  said,  though  not  without  confusion,  "Oh 
yes,  Mr.  Pecksniff,  you  can  come  in  if  you  please." 

How  are  we  to-day,"   said  Mr.    Pecksniff,   jocosely; 
and  what  are  our  plans?     Are  we  ready  to  go  and  see  Tom 
Pinch's  sister?     Ha,  ha,  ha!     Poor  Thomas  Pinch!  " 

*'Are  we  ready,"  returned  Mrs.  Todgers,  nodding  her 
head  with  mysterious  intelligence,  "to  send  a  favorable 
reply  to  Mr.  Jinkins*  round-robin?  That's  the  first  question, 
Mr.  Pecksniff." 

"Why  Mr.  Jinkins*  robin,  my  dear  madam?"  asked 
Mr.  Pecksniff,  putting  one  arm  round  Mercy  and  the  other 
round  Mrs.  Todgers,  whom  he  seemed,  in  the  abstraction  of 
the  moment,  to  mistake  for  Charity.     "Why  Mr.  Jinkins'?" 

"Because  he  began  to  get  it  up,  and  indeed  always 
takes  the  lead  in  the  house,"  said  Mrs.  Todgers,  playfully. 
"That's  why,  sir." 

"Jinkins  is  a  man  of  superior  talents,"  observed  Mr. 
Pecksniff.  "I  have  conceived  a  great  regard  for  Jinkins. 
I  take  Jinkins'  desire  to  pay  polite  attention  to  my  daughters 
as  an  additional  proof  of  the  friendly  feelings  of  Jinkins, 
Mrs.  Todgers." 

"Well  now,"  returned  the  lady,  "having  said  so  much, 
you  must  say  the  rest,  Mr.  Pecksniff;  so  tell  the  dear  young 
ladies  all  about  it." 


222  TODGBRS' 

With  these  words  she  gently  eluded  Mr.  Pecksniff's 
grasp,  and  took  Miss  Charity  into  her  own  embrace;  though 
whether  she  was  impelled  to  this  proceeding  solely  by  the 
irrepressible  affection  she  had  conceived  for  that  young  lady, 
or  whether  it  had  any  reference  to  a  lowering,  not  to  say 
distinctly  spiteful  expression  which  had  been  visible  in  her 
face  for  some  moments,  has  never  been  exactly  ascertained. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  Mr.  Pecksniff  went  on  to  inform  his 
daughters  of  the  purport  and  history  of  the  round-robin 
aforesaid,  which  was,  in  brief,  that  the  commercial  gentle- 
man who  helped  to  make  up  the  sum  and  substance  of  that 
noun  of  multitude  signifying  many,  called  Todgers,  desired 
the  honor  of  their  presence  at  the  general  table  so  long  as  they 
remained  in  the  house,  and  besought  that  they  would  grace 
the  board  at  dinner-time  next  day,  the  same  being  Sunday. 
He  further  said  that,  Mrs.  Todgers  being  a  consenting  party 
to  this  invitation,  he  was  willing,  for  his  part,  to  accept  it; 
and  so  left  them  that  he  might  write  his  gracious  answer, 
the  while  they  armed  themselves  with  their  best  bonnets  for 
the  utter  defeat  and  overthrow  of  Miss  Pinch. 

Tom  Pinch's  sister  was  governess  in  a  family,  a  lofty 
family ;  perhaps  the  wealthiest  brass  and  copper  founder's 
family  known  to  mankind.  They  lived  at  Camberwell ;  in 
a  house  so  big  and  fierce  that  its  mere  outside,  like  the  out- 
side of  a  giant's  castle,  struck  terror  into  vulgar  minds  and 
made  bold  persons  quail.  There  was  a  great  front  gate,  with 
a  great  bell,  whose  handle  was  in  itself  a  note  of  admiration  ; 
and  a  great  lodge,  which,  being  close  to  the  house,  rather 
spoiled  the  look-out  certainly,  but  made  the  look-in  tremen- 
dous. At  this  entry  a  great  porter  kept  constant  watch  and 
ward ;  and  when  he  gave  the  visitor  high  leave  to  pass  he 
rang  a  second  great  bell,  responsive  to  whose  note  a  great 


TODGERS*  223 

footman  appeared  in  due  time  at  the  great  hall-door  with 
such  g-reat  tags  upon  his  liveried  shoulders  that  he  was  per- 
petually entangling-  and  hooking"  himself  among  the  chairs 
and  tables  and  led  a  life  of  torment  which  could  scarcely  have 
been  surpassed  if  he  had  been  a  blue-bottle  in  a  world  of 
cobwebs. 

To  this  mansion  Mr.  Pecksniff,  accompanied  by  his 
daughters  and  Mrs.  Todgfers,  drove  g-allantly  in  a  one-horse 
fly.  The  foreg^oing"  ceremonies  having"  been  all  performed, 
they  were  ushered  into  the  house,  and  so,  by  degrees, 
they  got  at  last  into  a  small  room  with  books  in  it,  where 
Mr.  Pinch's  sister  was  at  that  moment  instructing  her  eldest 
pupil :  to  wit,  a  premature  little  woman  thirteen  years  old, 
who  had  already  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of  whalebone  and 
education  that  she  had  nothing  g-irlish  about  her ;  which  was 
a  source  of  great  rejoicing*  to  all  her  relations  and  friends. 

*' Visitors  for  Miss  Pinch!"  said  the  footman.  He 
must  have  been  an  ingenious  young-  man,  for  he  said  it  very 
cleverly;  with  a  nice  discrimination  between  the  cold  respect 
with  which  he  would  have  announced  visitors  to  the  family 
and  the  warm  personal  interest  with  which  he  would  have 
announced  visitors  to  the  cook. 

"Visitors  for  Miss  Pinch!" 

Miss  Pinch  rose  hastily  with  such  tokens  of  agitation 
as  plainly  declared  that  her  list  of  callers  was  not  numerous. 
At  the  same  time  the  little  pupil  became  alarmingly  up- 
right, and  prepared  herself  to  take  mental  notes  of  all  that 
might  be  said  and  done.  For  the  lady  of  the  establishment  was 
curious  in  the  natural  history  and  habits  of  the  animal  called 
Governess,  and  encouraged  her  daughters  to  report  thereon 
whenever  occasion  served;  which  was,  in  reference  to  all 
parties   concerned,   very  laudable,  improving-,  and  pleasant. 


224  TODGBRS' 

It  is  a  melancholy  fact,  but  it  must  be  related,  that  Mr. 
Pinch's  sister  was  not  at  all  ugly.  On  the  contrary,  she  had 
a  good  face — a  very  mild  and  prepossessing  face;  and  a 
pretty  little  figure — slight  and  short,  but  remarkable  for  its 
neatness.  There  was  something  of  her  brother,  much  of 
him  indeed,  in  a  certain  gentleness  of  manner,  and  in  her 
look  of  timid  trustfulness;  but  she  was  so  far  from  being  a 
fright,  or  a  dowdy,  or  a  horror,  or  anything  else  predicted  by 
the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs,  that  those  young  ladies  naturally 
regarded  her  with  great  indignation,  feeling  that  this  was  by 
no  means  what  they  had  come  to  see. 

Miss  Mercy,  as  having  the  larger  share  of  gayety,  bore 
up  the  best  against  this  disappointment,  and  carried  it  off, 
in  outward  show  at  least,  with  a  titter;  but  her  sister,  not 
caring  to  hide  her  disdain,  expressed  it  pretty  openly  in  her 
looks.  As  to  Mrs.  Todgers,  she  leaned  on  Mr.  Pecksniff's 
arm  and  preserved  a  kind  of  genteel  grimness,  suitable  to 
any  state  of  mind,  and  involving  any  shade  of  opinion. 

*' Don't  be  alarmed.  Miss  Pinch,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
taking  her  hand  condescendingly  in  one  of  his,  and  patting 
it  with  the  other.  ''I  have  called  to  see  you,  in  pursuance 
of  a  promise  given  to  your  brother,  Thomas  Pinch.  My 
name — compose  yourself,  Miss  Pinch — is  Pecksniff." 

The  good  man  emphasized  these  words  as  though  he 
would  have  said,  *' You  see  in  me,  young  person,  the  bene 
factor  of  your  race ;  the  patron  of  your  house ;  the  preserver 
of  your  brother,  who  is  fed  with  manna  daily  from  my  table; 
and  in  right  of  whom  there  is  a  considerable  balance  in  my 
favor  at  present  standing  in  the  books  beyond  the  sky  But 
I  have  no  pride,  for  I  can  afford  to  do  without  it! " 

The  poor  girl  felt  it  all  as  if  it  had  been  Gospel  Truth. 
Her  brother,  writing  in  the  fullness  of  his  simple  heart,  had 


It 


TODGERS'  225 

often  told  her  so,  and  how  much  more!  As  Mr.  Pecksniff 
ceased  to  speak,  she  hung-  her  head,  and  dropped  a  tear  upon 
his  hand. 

*'  Oh,  very  well.  Miss  Pinch!"  thoug-ht  the  sharp  pupil, 
"crying-  before  strangers,  as  if  you  didn't  like  the  situation!  " 

"Thomas  is  well,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff;  "and  sends  his 
love  and  this  letter.  I  cannot  say,  poor  fellow,  that  he  will 
ever  be  disting-uished  in  our  profession;  but  he  has  the  will 
to  do  well,  which  is  the  next  thing-  to  having-  the  power,  and, 
therefore,  we  must  bear  with  him.     Eh?" 

I  know  he  has  the  will,  sir,"  said  Tom  Pinch's  sister, 
and  I  know  how  kindly  and  considerately  you  cherish  it, 
for  which  neither  he  nor  I  can  ever  be  g-rateful  enough,  as 
we  very  often  say  in  writing-  to  each  other.  The  young; 
ladies  too,"  she  added,  glancing-  g-ratefully  at  his  two  daug-h- 
ters.     "I  know  how  much  we  owe  to  them." 

"My  dears,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  turning-  to  them  with 
a  smile;  "Thomas*  sister  is  saying-  something-  you  will  be 
glad  to  hear,  I  think." 

"We  can't  take  any  merit  to  ourselves,  papa!"  cried 
Cherry,  as  they  both  apprised  Tom  Pinch's  sister,  with  a 
courtesy,  that  they  would  feel  obliged  if  she  would  keep  her 
distance.  "  Mr.  Pinch's  being  so  well  provided  for  is  owing 
to  you  alone,  and  we  can  only  say  how  glad  we  are  to  hear 
that  he  is  as  grateful  as  he  ought  to  be.'* 

"Oh,  very  well,  Miss  Pinch!'*  thought  the  pupil 
again.  "  Got  a  grateful  brother,  living  on  other  people's 
kindness.'* 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Tom  Pinch's  sister, 

with  Tom's  own  simplicity  and  Tom's  own  smile,  "to  come 

here — very  kind  indeed ;  though  how  great  a  kindness  you 

have  done  me  in  gratifying  my  wish  to  see  you,  and  to  thank 
15 


226  TODGERS' 

you  with  my  own  lips,  you,  who  make  so  light  of  benefits 
conferred,  can  scarcely  think.'* 

**Very  grateful;  very  pleasant ;  very  proper,'*  murmured 
Mr.  Pecksniff. 

**It  makes  me  happy,  too,"  said  Ruth  Pinch,  who,  now 
that  her  first  surprise  was  over,  had  a  chatty,  cheerful  way 
with  her,  and  a  single-hearted  desire  to  look  upon  the  best 
side  of  everything,  which  was  the  very  moral  and  image  of 
Tom;  "very  happy  to  think  that  you  will  be  able  to  tell  him 
how  more  than  comfortably  I  am  situated  here,  and  how 
unnecessary  it  is  that  he  should  ever  waste  a  regret  on 
my  being  cast  upon  my  own  resources.  Dear  me  I  So  long 
as  I  heard  that  he  was  happy  and  he  heard  that  I  was,'*  said 
Tom's  sister,  **  we  could  both  bear,  without  one  impatient  or 
complaining  thought,  a  great  deal  more  than  ever  we  have 
had  to  endure,  I  am  very  certain."  And  if  ever  the  plain 
truth  were  spoken  on  this  occasionally  false  earth,  Tom's 
sister  spoke  it  when  she  said  that. 

"Ah!"  cried  Mr.  Pecksniff,  whose  eyes  had  in  the 
meantime  wandered  to  the  pupil;  "certainly.  And  how  do 
you  do,  my  very  interesting  child?" 

"  Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  that  frosty  inno- 
cent. 

"A  sweet  face  this,  my  dears,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  turn- 
ing to  his  daughters.     "A  charming  manner  I  " 

Both  young  ladies  had  been  in  ecstasies  with  the  scion 
of  a  wealthy  house  (through  whom  the  nearest  road  and 
shortest  cut  to  her  parents  might  be  supposed  to  lie)  from 
the  first.  Mrs.  Todgers  vowed  that  anything  one-quarter 
so  angelic  she  had  never  seen.  "  She  wanted  but  a  pair  of 
wings,  a  dear,"  said  that  good  woman,  "to  be  a  young 
syrup,"  meaning,  possibly,  young  sylph  or  seraph. 


TODGERS' 


227 


*'  If  you  will  give  that  to  your  disting-uished  parents,  my 
amiable  little  friend,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  producing-  one  of 
his  professional  cards,  "and  will  say  that  I  and  my 
daughters " 


(( 


And  Mrs.  Todgers,  pa,"  said  Mercy. 


"I  SAY— THERE'S  FOWLS  TO-MORROW.    NOT  SKINNY  ONES.    OH  NO!" 


"And  Mrs.  Todgers,  of  London,"  added  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
"that  I,  and  my  daughters,  and  Mrs.  Todgers,  of  London, 
did  not  intrude  upon  them,  as  our  object  simply  was  to  take 
some  notice  of  Miss  Pinch,  whose  brother  is  a  young  man 
in  my  employment;    but  that  I  could    not  leave  this  very 


228  TODGERS' 

chaste  mansion  without  adding-  my  humble  tribute,  as  an 
architect,  to  the  correctness  and  eleg-ence  of  the  owner's  taste, 
and  to  his  just  appreciation  of  that  beautiful  art,  to  the  culti- 
vation of  which  I  have  devoted  a  life,  and  to  the  promotion 
of  whose  glory  and  advancement  I  have  sacrificed  a — a 
fortune — I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you." 
'  *'  Missis'  compliments  to  Miss  Pinch,"  said  the  foot- 
man, suddenly  appearing,  and  speaking  in  exactly  the  same 
key  as  before,  "and  begs  to  know  wot  my  young  lady  is  a- 
learning  of  just  now." 

*'0h!"  said  Mr,  Pecksniff,  "here  is  the  young  man. 
He  will  take  the  card.  With  my  compliments,  if  you  please, 
young  man.  My  dears,  we  are  interrupting  the  studies. 
Let  us  go." 

One  evening,  following  the  visit  to  Miss  Pinch,  there 
was  a  great  bustle  at  Todgers',  partly  owing  to  some  addi- 
tional domestic  preparations  for  the  morrow  and  partly  to  the 
excitement  always  inseparable  in  that  house  from  Saturday 
night,  when  every  gentleman's  linen  arrived  at  a  different  hour 
in  his  own  little  bundle,  with  his  private  account  pinned  on 
the  outside.  Shrill  altercations  from  time  to  time  arose  be- 
tween Mrs.  Todgers  and  the  girl  in  remote  back  kitchens ;  and 
sounds  were  occasionally  heard,  indicative  of  small  articles 
of  iron-mongery  and  hardware  being  thrown  at  the  boy.  It 
was  the  custom  of  that  youth  on  Saturdays  to  roll  up  his 
shirt  sleeves  to  his  shoulders,  and  pervade  all  parts  of  the 
house  in  an  apron  of  coarse  green  baize ;  moreover,  he  was 
more  strongly  tempted  on  Saturdays  than  any  other  days  (it 
being  a  busy  time)  to  make  bolts  into  the  neighboring  alleys 
when  he  answered  the  door,  and  there  to  play  at  leap-frog  and 
other  sports  with  vagrant  lads,  until  pursued  and  brought 
back  by  the  hair  of  his  head  or  the  lobe  of  his  ear;  thus,  he 


TODGERS'  229 

was  quite  a  conspicuous  feature  among-  the  peculiar  incidents 
of  the  last  day  in  the  week  at  Todgers'. 

He  was  especially  so  on  this  particular  Saturday  even- 
ing- and  honored  the  Miss  Pecksniffs  with  a  deal  of  notice; 
seldom  passing-  the  door  of  Mrs.  Todgers'  private  room, 
where  they  sat  alone  before  the  fire,  without  putting  in  his 
head  and  greeting*  them  with  some  such  compliments  as, 
"There  you  are  agin!'*  "Ain't  it  nice?" — and  similar 
humorous  attentions. 

**  I  say,"  he  whispered,  stopping-  in  one  of  his  journeys 
to  and  fro,  "young  ladies,  there's  soup  to-morrow.  She's  a- 
making-  it  now.  Ain't  she  a-putting-  in  the  water!  Oh!  not 
at  all,  neither!  '* 

In  the  course  of  answering"  another  knock  he  thrust  in 
his  head  again. 

"I  say — there's  fowls  to-morrow.  Not  skinny  ones. 
Oh  no!" 

Presently  he  called  throug-h  the  keyhole: 

"There's  a  fish  to-morrow — just  come.  Don't  eat  none 
of  him! "    and  with  this  spectral  warning-,  vanished  ag-ain. 

By-and-by  he  returned  to  lay  the  cloth  for  supper.  He 
entertained  them  on  this  occasion  by  thrusting-  the  lighted 
candle  into  his  mouth,  and  exhibiting  his  face  in  a  state  of 
transparency;  after  the  performance  of  which  feat  he  went 
on  with  his  professional  duties;  brightening-  every  knife  as 
he  laid  it  on  the  table,  by  breathing-  on  the  blade  and  after- 
wards polishing-  the  same  on  the  apron  already  mentioned. 
When  he  had  completed  his  preparations  he  grinned  at  the 
sisters,  and  expressed  his  belief  that  the  approaching-  colla- 
tion would  be  of  "rather  a  spicy  sort." 

**Will  it  be  long  before  it's  ready,  Bailey?  "  asked  Mercy. 

"No,"  said  Bailey,  "it  is  cooked.     When  I  come   up 


230  TODGERS' 

she  was  dodg-ing-  among-  the  tender  pieces  with  a  fork,  and 
eating-  of  'em." 

But  he  had  scarcely  achieved  the  utterance  of  these 
words  when  he  received  a  manual  compliment  on  the  head 
which  sent  him  staggering-  ag-ainst  the  wall,  and  Mrs.  Tod- 
gers,  dish  in  hand,  stood  indignantly  before  him. 

*'0h  you  little  villain!  "  said  that  lady.  "Oh  you  bad,] 
false  boy!"  ' 

"No  worse  than  yerself,"  retorted  Bailey,  g-uarding-  his 
head,  on  a  principle  invented  by  Mr.  Thomas  Cribb.  "Ah! 
Come  now!     Do  that  ag-in,  willyer?" 

"He's  the  most  dreadful  child,"  said  Mrs.  Todg^ers,  set- 
ting down  the  dish,  "I  ever  had  to  deal  with.  The  gentle- 
men spoil  him  to  that  extent,  and  teach  him  such  things, 
that  I'm  afraid  nothing  but  hanging  will  ever  do  him  any 
good." 

"Won't  it!"  cried  Bailey.  "Oh!  Yes!  Wot  do  you 
go  a-lowerin'  the  table-beer  for,  then,  and  destroying  my 
constitooshun?" 

"Go  downstairs,  you  vicious  boy!"  said  Mrs.  Todgers, 
holding  the  door  open.     "  Do  you  hear  me?    Go  along!  " 

After  two  or  three  dexterous  feints  he  went,  and  was 
seen  no  more  that  night,  save  once,  when  he  brought  up 
some  tumblers  and  hot  water,  and  much  disturbed  the  two 
Miss  Peckniffs  by  squinting  hideously  behind  the  back  of 
the  unconscious  Mrs.  Todgers.  Having  done  this  justice 
to  his  wounded  feelings,  he  retired  under-ground ;  where,  in 
company  with  a  swarm  of  black  .beetles  and  a  kitchen 
candle,  he  employed  his  faculties  in  cleaning  boots  and 
J:)rushing  clothes  until  the  night  was  far  advanced. 

Benjamin  was  supposed  to  be  the  real  name  of  this 
young  retainer,   but  he  was   known   by  a  great  variety  oi 


TODGERS'  231 

names.  Benjamin,  for  instance,  had  been  converted  into 
Uncle  Ben,  and  that  again  had  been  corrupted  into  Uncle. 
The  g-entlemen  at  Todg-ers'  had  a  merry  habit,  too,  of  bestow- 
ing upon  him,  for  the  time  being,  the  name  of  any  notorious 
malefactor  or  minister,  and  sometimes,  when  current  events 
were  flat,  they  even  sought  the  pages  of  history  for  these 
distinctions ;  as  Mr.  Pitt,  Young  Brownrigg,  and  the  like. 
At  the  period  of  which  we  write  he  was  generally  known 
among  the  gentlemen  as  Bailey  junior,  a  name  bestowed 
upon  him  in  contradistinction,  perhaps,  to  Old  Bailey;  and 
possibly  as  involving  the  recollection  of  an  unfortunate  lady 
of  the  same  name,  who  perished  by  her  own  hand  early  in 
life,  and  has  been  immortalized  in  a'ballad. 

The  usual  Sunday  dinner-hour  at  Todgers'  was  two 
o'clock — a  suitable  time,  it  was  considered,  for  all  parties; 
convenient  to  Mrs.  Todgers,  on  account  of  the  bakers ;  and 
convenient  to  the  gentlemen,  with  reference  to  their  afternoon 
engagements.  But  on  the  Sunday  which  was  to  introduce 
the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs  to  a  full  knowledge  of  Todgers*  and 
its  society,  the  dinner  was  postponed  until  five,  in  order  that 
everything  might  be  as  genteel  as  the  occasion  demanded. 

When  the  hour  drew  nigh,  Bailey  junior,  testifying  great 
excitement,  appeared  in  a  complete  suit  of  cast-off  clothes 
several  sizes  too  large  for  him,  and,  in  particular,  mounted  a 
'clean  shirt  of  such  extraordinary  magnitude  that  one  of  the 
gentlemen  (remarkable  for  his  ready  wit)  called  him 
''collars"  on  the  spot.  At  about  a  quarter  before  five  a  depu- 
tation, consisting  of  Mr.  Jinkins  and  another  gentleman 
whose  name  was  Gander,  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Tod- 
gers' room,  and,  being  formally  introduced  to  the  two  Miss 
Pecksniffs  by  their  parent,  who  was  in  waiting,  besought  the 
honor  of  conducting  them  upstairs. 


232  TODQERS' 

Here  the  gfentlemen  were  all  assembled.  There  was  a 
general  cry  of  "Hear,  hear!"  and  **  Bravo,  Jink!"  when 
Mr.  Jinkins  appeared  with  Charity  on  his  arm ;  which  be- 
came quite  rapturous  as  Mr.  Gander  followed,  escorting 
Mercy,  and  Mr.  Pecksniff  brought  up  the  rear  with  Mrs. 
Todgers. 

"The  wittles  is  up  I  " 


Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness; 


RICHARD  SWIVELLER,  a  good-hearted,  though 
somewhat  erratic  young-  man,  the  clerk  of  Sampson 
Brass,  a  scheming  lawyer,  often  found  time  hanging 
heavily  on  his  hands,  and  for  the  better  preservation  of  his 
cheerfulness  therefore,  and  to  prevent  his  faculties  from 
rusting,  he  provided  himself  with  a  cribbage-board  and  pack 
of  cards,  and  accustomed  himself  to  play  at  cribbage  with  a 
dummy,  for  twenty,  thirty,  or  sometimes  even  fifty  thousand 
pounds  a  side,  besides  many  hazardous  bets  to  a  consider- 
able amount. 

As  these  games  were  very  silently  conducted,  notwith- 
standing the  magnitude  of  the  interests  involved,  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller began  to  think  that  on  those  evenings  when  Mr.  and 
Miss  Brass  were  out  (and  they  often  went  out  now)  he  heard  a 
kind  of  snorting  or  hard-breathing  sound  in  the  direction  of 
the  door,  which  it  occurred  to  him,  after  some  reflection, 
must  proceed  from  the  small  servant,  who  always  had  a  cold 
from  damp  living.  Looking  intently  that  way  one  night,  he 
plainly  distinguished  an  eye  gleaming  and  glistening  at  the 
keyhole;  and  having  now  no  doubt  that  his  suspicions  were 
correct,  he  stole  softly  to  the  door  and  pounced  upon  her 
before  she  was  aware  of  his  approach. 

**  Oh!  I  didn't  mean  any  harm  indeed.  Upon  my  word 
I  didn't,"  cried  the  small  servant,  struggling  like  a  much 
larger  one.  '*  It's  so  very  dull  downstairs.  Please  don't  you 
tell  upon  me;  please  don't." 

"  Tell  upon  you !  "   said  Dick.      "  Do  you  mean  to  say 

you  were  looking  through  the  keyhole  for  company?" 

233 


234  DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS 


Yes,  upon  my  word  I  was,"  replied  the  small  servant. 
How  long"  have  you  been  cooling  your  eye  there,"  said 
Dick. 

"Oh,  ever  since  you  first  began  to  play  them  cards, 
and  long  before." 

Vague  recollections  of  several  fantastic  exercises  with 
which  he  had  refreshed  himself  after  the  fatigues  of  business, 
and  to  all  of  which,  no  doubt,  the  small  servant  was  a  party, 
rather  disconcerted  Mr.  Swiveller;  but  he  was  not  very 
sensitive  on  such  points,  and  recovered  himself  speedily. 

"Well — come  in,"  he  said,  after  a  little  consideration. 
"Here — sit  down,  and  I'll  teach  you  how  to  play." 

"Oh!  I  durstn't  do  it,"  rejoined  the  small  servant. 
"  Miss  Sally  'ud  kill  me  if  she  know'd  I  came  up  here." 

"  Have  you  got  a  fire  downstairs?"  said  Dick. 

"A  very  little  one,"  replied  the  small  servant. 

"  Miss  Sally  couldn't  kill  me  if  she  know'd  I  went 
down  there,  so  I'll  come,"  said  Richard,  putting  the  cards 
into  his  pocket.  "Why,  how  thin  you  are!  What  do  you 
mean  by  it?" 

"It  ain't  my  fault." 

"Could  you  eat  any  bread  and  meat?"  said  Dick, 
taking  down  his  hat.  "Yes?  Ah!  I  thought  so.  Did 
^ou  ever  taste  beer?  " 

"  I  had  a  sip  of  it  once,"  said  the  small  servant. 

"  Here's  a  state  of  things! "  cried  Mr.  Swiveller,  raising 
his  eyes  to  the  ceiling.  "She  never  tasted  it — it  can't  be 
tasted  in  a  sip!     Why,  how  old  are  you?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Swiveller  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  and  appeared 
thoughtful  for  a  moment ;  then,  bidding  the  child  mind  the 
door  until  he  came  back,  vanished  straightway. 


DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS  235 

Presently  he  returned,  followed  by  the  boy  from  the 
public  house,  who  bore  in  one  hand  a  plate  of  bread  and  beef 
and  in  the  other  a  great  pot,  filled  with  some  very  fragrant 
compound,  which  sent  forth  a  grateful  steam,  and  was  indeed 
choice  purl,  made  after  a  particular  receipt  which  Mr. 
Swiveller  had  imparted  to  the  landlord  at  a  period  when  he 
was  deep  in  his  books  and  desirous  to  conciliate  his  friend- 
ship. Relieving  the  boy  of  his  burden  at  the  door,  and 
charging  his  little  companion  to  fasten  it  to  prevent  surprise, 
Mr.  Swiveller  followed  her  into  the  kitchen.  ''There!  "  said 
Richard,  putting  the  plate  before  her.  ''First  of  all,  clear 
that  off,  and  then  you'll  see  what's  next." 

The  small  servant  needed  no  second  bidding,  and  the 
plate  was  soon  empty. 

"Next,"  said  Dick,  handing  the  purl,  "take  a  pull  at 
that;  but  moderate  your  transports,  you  know,  for  you're  not 
used  to  it.     Well,  is  it  good  ?" 

"Oh  !  isn't  it?"  said  the  small  servant. 

Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  gratified  beyond  all  expression 
by  this  reply,  and  took  a  long  draught  himself,  steadfastly 
regarding  his  companion  while  he  did  so.  These  prelim- 
inaries disposed  of,  he  applied  himself  to  teaching  her  the 
igame,  which  she  soon  learnt  tolerably  well,  being  both  sharp- 
witted  and  cunning. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  two  sixpences 
into  a  saucer,  and  trimming  the  wretched  candle,  when  the 
cards  had  been  cut  and  dealt,  "those  are  the  stakes. 
If  you  win,  you  get  'em  all.  If  I  win,  I  get  'em.  To  make 
it  seem  more  real  and  pleasant  I  shall  call  you  the  Mar- 
chioness, do  you  hear?" 

The  small  servant  nodded. 

"Then,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "fire  away!" 


236  DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS 

The  Marchioness,  holding*  her  cards  very  tight  in  both 
hands,  considered  which  to  play,  and  Mr.  Swiveller,  assum 
ing  the  gay  and  fashionable  air  which  such  society  required, 
took  another  pull  at  the  tankard,  and  waited  for  her  to  lead. 

Mr.  Swiveller  and  his  partner  played  several  rubbers 
with  varying"  success,  until  the  loss  of  three  sixpences,  the 
gradual  sinking*  of  the  purl  and  the  striking  of  ten  o'clock 
combined  to  render  that  gentleman  mindful  of  the  flight  of 
time,  and  the  expediency  of  withdrawing  before  Mr.  Sampson 
and  Miss  Sally  Brass  returned. 

''With  which  object  in  view,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr. 
Swiveller  gravely,  "I  shall  ask  your  ladyship's  permission 
to  put  the  board  in  my  pocket,  and  to  retire  from  the 
presence  when  I  have  finished  this  tankard  ;  merely  observ- 
ing. Marchioness,  that  since  life  like  a  river  is  flowing,  I 
care  not  how  fast  it  rolls  on,  ma'am,  on,  while  such  purl  on 
the  bank  still  is  growing,  and  such  eyes  light  the  waves  as 
they  run.  Marchioness,  your  health !  You  will  excuse 
my  wearing  my  hat,  but  the  palace  is  damp,  and  the  marble 
floor  is — if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression — sloppy." 

As  a  precaution  against  this  latter  inconvenience,  Mr.^ 
Swiveller  had  been  sitting-  for  some  time  with  his  feet  on  the 
hob,  in  which  attitude  he  now  g-ave  utterance  to  these  apolo- 
getic observations,  and  slowly  sipped  the  last  choice  drops, 
of  nectar. 

''The  Baron  Sampsono  Brasso  and  his  fair  sister  are 
(you  tell  me)  at  the  Play?"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  leaning-  his 
left  arm  heavily  upon  the  table,  and  raising  his  voice  and 
his  right  leg-  after  the  manner  of  a  theatrical  bandit. 

The  Marchioness  nodded. 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Swiveller  with  a  portentous  frown. 
''Tis  well,  Marchioness  ! — but  no  matter.     Some  wine  there. 


"MARCHIONESS,"  SAID  Mr.  SWIVELLER  THOUGHTFULLY 
"BE  PLEASED  TO  DRAW, .NEARER" 


OiB  T'lBtosiTY  Sho* 


DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS  237 

Ho!"  He  illustrated  these  melodramatic  morsels  by  hand- 
ing- the  tankard  to  himself  with  great  humility,  receiving-  it 
haughtily,  drinking  from  it  thirstily,  and  smacking-  his  lips 
fiercely. 

The  small  servant,  who  was  not  so  well  acquainted 
with  theatrical  conventionalities  as  Mr.  Swiveller  (having-, 
indeed  never  seen  a  play  or  heard  one  spoken  of,  except  by 
some  chance  through  chinks  of  doors  and  in  other  forbidden 
places),  was  rather  alarmed  by  demonstrations  so  novel  in 
their  nature,  and  showed  her  concern  so  plainly  in  her  looks 
that  Mr.  Swiveller  felt  it  necessary  to  discharge  his  brigand 
manner  for  one  more  suitable  to  private  life,  as  he  asked : 

Do  they  often  go  where  glory  waits  'em,  and  leave  you 
here?" 

Oh,  yes  ;  I  believe  they  do,"  returned  the  small  servant. 
Miss  Sallie's  such  a  one-er  for  that,  she  is." 

Such  a  what?"  said  Dick. 

Such  a  one-er,"  returned  the  Marchioness. 
After  a  moment's  reflection,  Mr.  Swiveller  determined 
to  forego  his  responsible  duty  of  setting  her  right  and  to 
suffer  her  to  talk  on,  as  it  was  evident  that  her  tongue  was 
loosened  by  the  purl  and  her  opportunities  for  conversation 
were  not  so  frequent  as  to  render  a  momentary  check  of  little 
consequence. 

"They  sometimes  go  to  see  Mr.  Quilp,"  said  the 
small  servant  with  a  shrewd  look;  "they  go  to  many  places, 
bless  you." 

Is  Mr.  Brass  a  wunner?"  said  Dick. 

Not  half  what  Miss  Sally  is,  he  isn't,"  replied  the 
small  servant,  shaking-  her  head.  "Bless  you,  he'd  never  do 
anything-  without  her." 

"Oh!     He  wouldn't,  wouldn't  he?"  said  Dick. 


"iVil; 

<  < , 


it- 
<< ' 


238  DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS 

"Miss  Sally  keeps  him  in  such  order,"   said  the  small 
servant,  "he  always  asks  her  advice,he  does;  and  he  catches  . 
it  sometimes.     Bless  you,  you  wouldn't  believe  how  much 
he  catches  it." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dick,  "that  they  consult  together  a 
good  deal,  and  talk  about  a  great  many  people — about  me, 
for  instance,  sometimes,  eh.  Marchioness?" 

The  Marchioness  nodded  amazingly. 

"Complimentary?"  said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

The  Marchioness  changed  the  motion  of  her  head,  which 
had  not  yet  left  off  nodding,  and  suddenly  began  to  shake  it 
from  side  to  side  with  a  vehemence  which  threatened  to  dis- 
locate her  neck. 

"Humph!  "  Dick  muttered.  "Would  it  be  any  breach 
of  confidence,  Marchioness,  to  relate  what  they  say  of  the 
humble  individual  who  has  now  the  honor  to ?" 

"Miss  Sallie  says  you're  a  funny  chap,"  replied  his 
friend. 

"Well,  Marchioness,"  said  Swiveller,  "that's  not  un- 
complimentary. Merriment,  Marchioness,  is  not  a  bad  or 
degrading  quality.  Old  King  Cole  was  himself  a  merry  old 
soul,  if  we  may  put  any  faith  in  the  pages  of  history." 

"But  she  says,"  pursued  his  companion,  "that  you  ain't 
to  be  trusted." 

"Why,  really,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller  thought- 
fully; "several  ladies  and  gentlemen — not  exactly  pro- 
fessional persons,  but  tradespeople,  ma'am,  tradespeople- 
have  made  the  same  remark.  The  obscure  citizen  who  keeps 
the  hotel  over  the  way  inclined  strongly  to  that  opinion  to- 
night when  I  ordered  him  to  prepare  the  banquet.  It  s  a 
popular  prejudice.  Marchioness,  and  yet  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know  why,  for  I  have  been  trusted  in  my  time  to  a  consider- 


DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS  239 

able  amount,  and  I  can  safely  say  that  I  never  forsook  my 
trust  until  it  deserted  me — never.  Mr.  Brass  is  of  the  same 
opinion,  I  suppose?" 

His  friend  nodded  again,  with  a  cunning-  look  which 
seemed  to  hint  that  Mr.  Brass  held  strong^er  opinions  on  the 
subject  than  his  sister ;  and  seeming-  to  recollect  herself,  ad-' 
ded  imploring^ly,  ''But  don't  you  ever  tell  upon  me,  or  I  shall 
be  beat  to  death." 

''Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  rising-,  "the  word  of 
a  g-entleman  is  as  g-ood  as  his  bond — sometimes  better;  as 
in  the  present  case,  where  his  bond  might  prove  but  a  doubt- 
ful sort  of  security.  I  am  your  friend,  and  I  hope  we  shall 
play  many  more  rubbers  tog-ether  in  the  same  saloon.  But, 
Marchioness,"  added  Richard,  stopping-  on  his  way  to  the 
door,  and  wheeling-  slowly  around  upon  the  small  servant, 
who  was  following-  with  the  candle,  "it  occurs  to  me  that 
you  must  be  in  the  constant  habit  of  airing-  your  eye  at  key- 
holes, to  know  all  this." 

"I  only  wanted,"  replied  the  trembling-  Marchioness, 
"to  know  where  the  key  of  the  safe  was  hid;  that  was  all; 
and  I  wouldn't  have  taken  much,  if  I  had  found  it — only 
enoug-h  to  squench  my  hung-er." 

"You  didn't  find  it,  then?"  said  Dick.  "But  of  course 
you  didn't,  or  you'd  be  plumper.  Good-night,  Marchioness. 
Fare  thee  well,  and  if  forever,  then  forever  fare  thee  well — 
and  put  up  the  chain.  Marchioness,  in  case  of  accidents." 

With  this  parting  injunction,  Mr.  Swiveller  emerged 
from  the  house,  and  feeling  that  he  had  by  this  time  taken 
quite  as  much  to  drink  as  promised  to  be  good  for  his  con- 
stitution (purl  being  a  rather  strong  and  heady  compound), 
wisely  resolved  to  betake  himself  to  his  lodgings,  and  to 
bed  at  once.     Homeward  he  went  therefore;    ar/d  his  ap^rt 


240  DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS 

ments  (for  he  still  retained  the  plural  fiction)  being-  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  office,  he  was  soon  seated  in  his 
own  bed-chamber,  where,  having*  pulled  off  one  boot  and 
forgotten  the  other,  he  fell  into  deep  cogitation. 

''This  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  folding  his 
arms,  *'is  a  very  extraordinary  person — surrounded  by  mys- 
teries, ignorant  of  the  taste  of  beer,  unacquainted  with  her 
own  name  (which  is  less  remarkable),  and  taking  a  limited 
view  of  society  through  the  keyholes  of  doors — can  these 
things  be  her  destiny,  or  has  some  unknown  person  started 
an  opposition  to  the  decrees  of  fate?  It  is  a  most  inscrut- 
able and  unmitigated  staggerer!  " 

When  his  meditations  had  attained  this  satisfactory 
point,  he  became  aware  of  his  remaining  boot,  of  which, 
with  unimpaired  solemnity,  he  proceeded  to  divest  himself; 
shaking  his  head  with  exceeding  gravity  all  the  time,  and 
sighing  deeply. 

''These  rubbers,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  on  his 
nightcap  in  exactly  the  same  style  as  he  wore  his  hat,  "re- 
mind me  of  the  matrimonial  fireside.  My  old  girl,  Chegg's 
wife,  plays  cribbage ;  all-fours  alike.  She  rings  the  changes 
on  'em  now.  From  sport  to  sport  they  hurry  her,  to  banish 
her  regrets,  and  when  they  win  a  smile  from  her  they  think 
that  she  forgets — but  she  don't.  By  this  time,  I  should 
say,"  added  Richard,  getting  his  left  cheek  into  profile,  and 
looking  complacently  at  the  reflection  of  a  very  little  scrap 
of  whisker  in  the  looking-glass;  "by  this, time,  I  should  say, 
the  iron  has  entered  into  her  soul.     It  serves  her  right." 

Melting  from  this  stern  and  obdurate  into  the  tender 
and  pathetic  mood,  Mr.  Swiveller  groaned  a  little,  walked 
wildly  up  and  down,  and  even  made  a  show  of  tearing  his 
hair,  which  however  he  thought  better  of,  and  wrenched  the 


DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS  241 

tassel  from  his  nig-htcap  instead.     At  last,  undressing-  him- 
self with  a  gloomy  resolution,  he  got  into  bed. 

Some  men,  in  his  blighted  position,  would  have  taken 
to  drinking;  but  as  Mr  Swiveller  had  taken  to  that  before, 
he  only  took,  on  receiving  the  news  that  his  girl  was  lost  to 
him  forever,  to  playing  the  flute ;  thinking,  after  mature  con- 
sideration, that  it  was  a  good,  sound,  dismal  occupation, 
not  only  in  unison  with  his  own  sad  thoughts,  but  calcu- 
lated to  awaken  a  fellow-feeling  in  the  bosom  of  his  neigh- 
bors. In  pursuance  of  this  resolution,  he  now  drew  a  little 
table  to  his  bedside,  and,  arranging  the  light  and  a  small 
oblong  music-book  to  the  best  advantage,  took  his  flute  from 
its  box  and  began  to  play  most  mournfully. 

The  air  was  **Away  with  melancholy" — a  composition, 
which,  when  it  is  played  very  slowly  on  the  fiute^  in  bed, 
with  the  further  disadvantage  of  being  performed  by  a  gen- 
tleman but  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  instrument,  who 
repeats  one  note  a  great  many  times  before  he  can  find 
the  next,  has  not  a  lively  effect.  Yet  for  half  the  night,  or 
more,  Mr.  Swiveller,  lying  sometimes  on  his  back  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  ceiling,  and  sometimes  half  out  of  bed  to  cor- 
rect himself  by  the  book,  played  this  unhappy  tune  over  and 
over  again ;  never  leaving  off,  save  for  a  minute  or  two  at  a 
time  to  take  breath  and  soliloquize  about  the  Marchioness, 
and  then  beginning  again  with  renewed  vigor.  It  was  not 
until  he  had  quite  exhausted  his  several  subjects  of  medita- 
tion, and  had  breathed  into  the  flute  the  whole  sentiment  of 
the  purl  down  to  its  very  dregs,  and  had  nearly  maddened 
the  people  of  the  house,  and  at  both  the  next  doors,  and 
over  the  way — that  he  shut  up  the  music  book,  extinguished 
the  candle,  and,  finding  himself  greatly  lightened  and  re- 
lieved in  his  mind,  turned  round  and  fell  asleep. 
16 


242  DICK  SWIVELLBR  AND  THE  MARCHIONESS 

Dick  continued  his  friendly  relations  towards  the  Mar- 
chioness, and  when  he  fell  ill  with  typhoid  fever  his  little 
friend  nursed  him  back  to  health.  Just  after  this  illness  an 
aunt  of  his  died  and  left  him  quite  a  large  sum  of  money, 
a  portion  of  which  he  used  to  educate  the  Marchioness, 
whom  he  afterwards  married. 


■3 

-J.^r 

^>!^ 

■injI^i^qiHg 

^^m 

li 

1 

S-S-Tiif:-; 

fr*^ 

l,;=l!a 

Si 

ilS  X 

vSs-; 

-pS 

;*1';'"- 

"d^ 

^m 

-i 

^i>K» 

'i'-ii. 

y